There lies a man beneath the mound,
Great he is and slumbering.
Wise and noble,
Compassionate of touch and speech and mind.
His action just
And just enough to change the course of things, when such is needed,
But not so change should be for change's sake or gain.

He may sing the birds awake,
Call down the moon,
Teach babes to play
Or simply know his place and take it,
As he chooses,
Choosing well.

Fierce as the glint in the hawk's eye,
Wild as the Scairbhin
And tender such that hares may sit with him,
Fearless of his touch,
To seek his company and counsel.

Who may wake him ?
Only other men may so,
Holding as he does
Their souls in his dreams.

Waking him they wake themselves.