Where are your snow-white birds, O Angus
Where are your snow-white herds, O Freia
Who will come for the black Samháin
On a cold November grey?
Sídhe are open, the Shee are gone
Gloomy forest ready for rain
Warrior waif and his raven black
are pondering on the same.
Now where a bed is made for me?
Soft and warm, where am I to find it?
Where is the door that is open for me
And who waits for me behind it?