Lamenting the fall of Ilyrion to the barbarian Picts…
Through night they journeyed by the fiery brand,
Where adder-haunted swamp and marshes foul
Swallow the fruitful plenty of the land,
The only voice the restless forest’s growl.
The warrior’s eye like silver pierced the gloom,
As stealthily the silent host crept on –
Pale shadows long beneath the waxen moon;
Cuirass and buckler in the twilight shone.
And then like lightening in the sleepless night,
The host of Cuned, warlord of the north
Broke through their ranks, the frenzied Pictish might
Smote like an anvil on the brazen hearth…