What do the murmuring say
in the greenish coast
to the transparent beam
of the placid moonplace?

What do the high
dark pine needle jagged tops say
with its well compased
measured grumble?

"With your girdled greenness
and with benign stars
limit of the green castroes
and courageous land,
don't give to oblivion
of outrage the hard effort;
wake up from your dream
home of Breogán.

"The good and generous
our voice understand,
and with determination they attend
our harsh sound,
but only the ignoramus,
and wounded and hard,
idiot and dark
don't understand us, they do not.

"The times are arrived
of Age Bards,
that your indeterminacies
end they will put down;
because where it wants, giant
our voice proclaims
the redention of the good
Nation of Breogán".