At length we leave this cheerless shore, Unblest by summer's sunshine splendid; Its storm for us shall howl no more, Our time on gloomy Moyle is ended. Three hundred sunless summers past, We leave at length this loveless billow; Where oft we felt the icy blast, And made the shelving crag our pillow. Still on our lingering night of pain, Far distant beams the dawn of gladness; Light ease beside the western main Awaits our long accustomed sadness. Long must we haunt that billowy shore, Ere breaks for us the daybeam splendid, But here our numbered years are o'er, Our time on gloomy Moyle is ended. After that time the children of Lir left the Sea of Moyle, and flew until they came to the most westerly part of the ocean. They were there for a long time, suffering all kinds of hardship, until they happened to see a man, a tiller of the ground, who used often to watch them when they came near the shore, and took great pleasure in listening to their music. He told the people on the coast of what he had seen, and spread the tidings of the prodigy far and near. However, the same tale remains to be repeated, for the children of Lir never suffered so much before or after as they did on that very night, after the husbandman had seen them; the frost was so keen, and the snow coming so thick upon the wind. The waters all congealed into ice, so that the woods and the sea were of one color. Their feet stuck to the ground, leaving them unable to move, and they began to utter the most lamentable cries, while Fingula comforted, and strove to persuade them not to grieve, but in vain; and she repeated these lines:-- Sad are my suffering brethren's piercing cries, This dreary night! Sharp drives the snow shower, o'er the moonless skies, With ceaseless flight! Where'er they search the frost-bound ocean o'er, On solid ice their thirsty beaks are ringing, Nor on the wintry shore Fresh water laves their plumes, nor bubbling fount is springing. O thou dread Monarch, who to sea and coast Their being gave, And led'st, as shadowy rumor tells, a host, Through the deep wave! Behold these wretched birds with pitying eyes, Their lingering years in joyless slavery spending, In thy great might arise, And bid our souls be free, their bonds of anguish rending. "Brothers," said Fingula, "confide in Him who made heaven, and the elements, the earth with all its fruit, and the sea with all its wonders, and you will find comfort and relief." "We do confide in him," they answered. "And I confide with you," said Fingula, "in the only being who is full of knowledge and of pity." They remained on the Oraas Domhnan (Deep Seas) until their time was fulfilled, when Fingula said:-- "It is time for us to go to Fioncha, where Lir and his people dwell, and our people also."