When evening in Éireann was greyBefore the dawn they went awayTheir footsteps on hills were heardOn journey long without a wordFrom wilderland to western shoreThrough dragon lair and hidden doorFrom northern waste to southern hillOn darkling woods they walked at willWith Fionn and Óisín, dwarfe and manBird and bough and beast in denWith warrior-druid folkIn secret tongues they spokeA deadly sword, a healing handTrumpet voice, a burning brandTheir backs that bent ´neath their loadThose warriors on the road