Scél lem dúib dordaid dam
snigid gaim rofáith sam
Gáeth ard úar ísel grían
geir a rrith ruirthech rían.
Rorúad rath rocleth cruth
Rogab gnáth giugrann guth
rogab úacht etti én
aigre ré é mo scél.
I have a tale for you: a stag bells;
winter pours, summer has gone.
The wind is high, cold; the sun is low;
its course is short, the sea is strong running.
The bracken is very red; its shape has been hidden.
The cry of the barnacle goose has become usual.
Cold has taken the wings of birds.
Season of ice crystals; this is my tale.
Translation: Jeffrey Huntsman
