Setanta's eyes were bleary,
He could not raise his head.
His sinews tight and weary,
His body ached and bled.

The ropes that held him tightly
Around a rowan tall
Ensured that day and nightly
The hero would not fall.

"Hound of Culann!" the Morrigan sang.
"Take my hand! Fly this land!
Fight and stand!" the death knell rang.
But listen he did not.

His sword of Danann crafting
Grew heavy in his grip
From golden knotwork hafting
To splendid silver tip

And from his hand it fumbled
And struck the earth below.
The hill of Tara rumbled,
And still there sang the crow.

"Hound of Culann!" the Morrigan sang.
"Hear my song! Come along!
You must be strong!" the death knell rang,
But listen he did not.

The men of Connacht slain
Who stood against the Hound
Lay scattered in the plain
Their blood upon the ground.

The Hound of Ulster green
Who battled hard with death
Defeated Connacht's queen
And drew his final breath.

"Hound of Culann!" the Morrigan sang.
"Come away! Come this day!
You cannot stay!" the death knell rang.
But listen he could not.