The Chief - Domhnull mac Fhionnlaidh

Let clouds rest on the hills: spirits fly, and travellers fear.
Let the winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms descend.
Roar streams and windows flap, and green-winged meteors fly!
Rise the pale moon from behind her hills, or inclose her head in clouds!
Night is alike to me, blue, stormy, or gloomy the sky.
 Night flies before the beam, when it is poured on the hill.
The young day returns from his clouds, but we return no more.

Where are our chiefs of old? Where are our kings of mighty name?
The fields of their battles are silent. Scarce their mossy tombs remain.
We shall also be forgot. This lofty house shall fall.
Our sons shall not behold the ruins in grass.
They shall ask of the aged, "Where stood the walls of our fathers?"

Raise the song, and strike the harp; send round the shells of joy.
Suspend a hundred tapers on high. Youths and maids begin the dance.
Let some grey bard be near me, to tell the deeds of other times;
of kings renowned in our land, of chiefs we behold no more.
Thus let the night pass until morning shall appear in our halls.
Then let the bow be at hand, the dogs, the youths of the chase.
We shall ascend the hill with day, and awake the deer.

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Domhnull mac Fhionnlaidh (16th century, exact dates unknown) Scotland