Cold rains fall and drown the rock known as the Lia Fáil
Ohh poor Tara - How the mighty hall has fallen.
Once the pride of the Kings of Royal Éireann
Now the victim of the beast who's name be progress.

Ironic it is that he who pronounced your sentence
Be the son of the mother of the tribe who did condemn Ború.
Gormlaith the Whore, treacherous and lovely,
Gormley the Green - in ways more than just one.

Through raids and wars and kingly coronations
You have stood for many years
Since the arrival of the Tuatha Dé.

Many future kings in chariots did you greet with screech
As they circled you, cowering in Your might.
Now the same damn chariots - less horses
Are the things that cause your plight
And so my Lia Fáil, present since our nation's birth,
How do you feel today knowing your hour has past ?

Privileged do you feel as you witness the Death of a Nation ?
Or sorrow do you feel as Téa's tears do wash your grey skin clean ?

Graves of heroes ripped asunder
Jaws of steel tearing through
Ground and stone - bodies of bones
Precious things which earth has grown.

"Superstitions" say the powerful.
"We have money, what we say goes.
We will build roads where we will it
Damn your graves and temples old.
The old ways, they mean nothing.
Simple thoughts for simple folk.
Do you really think the Gods they live here ?
Mindless thoughts are one great joke".

The road is empty save for a few.
From a sewer to a bog it flows to.
Wealth and Power toppled in the end.

The Sídhe did laugh.
Humans descend into chaos and hardship and broken things.
Money and ambition - clipped at the wings.