There, rose a high idol after many battles
Which was called the Crom-Cruach
He would break any peace between the tribes
He was their god
Crom the withered in thick mists
Those who were frightened
Never would reach the High Kingdoms
There were hurting themselves
There were beating palms,
Hammering their bodies
While mourning in the name of the fallen One
Enslaving them
They were shedding endless floods of tear