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.