On Nechtain's hill stood a holy well

With knowledge in its depths

And up that hill when night was still

Trecherous Boann crept.

That the maid would dare profane

His well stirred Nechtain's ire

So as she stole towards that hole

The waters rose higher and higher.

From waters blue a torrent grew

Poor Boann, she ran in vain

From Nechtain's scorn was a river born;

'Boyne' after her was named.