Someone wrote this in Celtic around 850.
Sliab Cua, dark and broken, is full of wolf packs.
The wind sweeps down its glens,
Wolves howl about its dykes,
The fierce dark deer bellows
Across it in the Autumn,
And the crane cries out across its rocks.
The night is cold on the Great Bog.
This storm is lashing—no small matter.
The sharp wind is laughing at the groans
Echoing through the cowering wood.
We are shattered and battered, engulfed,
O King of clear-starred Heaven!
The wind has swallowed us like twigs
swallowed in a red flame out of Heaven.
Want and Winter are upon us.
The lake side is flooded.
Frost has shriveled the leaves.
The pleasant wave has started muttering.