Song of Ciabhan

To the isle of peace I turn our prow,

No angry seas shall fright you now,

But calm lake waters, as smooth as glass,

Where we shall pass from the place of slaughters.

In our isle the calm slow dripping dew

Shall shed its balm-twixt night and you,

And peace shall hover till Angus calls,

And the great peace falls on beloved and lover.