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                                                            Chega ond'a cerca do castro,
                                                     mira pro fondo do val,
                                                     finca na parede o codo,
                                                     deita a cabeza na mau,
                                                     e namentras que coa outra
                                                     arricando musgue está,
                                                     pensatible, triste e morno,
                                                     así se pon a falar:

                                                            -Alá van os nosos eidos,
                                                     a miña casa alá vay;
                                                     xa me mataron os fillos,
                                                     matárom'a muller xa;
                                                     morreron os nosos homes
                                                     que souperon peleyar,
                                                     morréron-nos os druidas
                                                     servidores de Teutás,
                                                     e matáron-nos as virxes
                                                     que'andaban ó pé do altar
                                                     ca fouce d'ouro no cinto
                                                     y-a vara verde na mau.
                                                     Xa queimaron a devesa
                                                     consagrada á soledá...

                                                            Ay! Cando funguen os ventos
                                                     nas polas do castañal
                                                     xa non ruxirán as armas
                                                     qu'alí tiñan nosos pais...!
                                                     Donde fixemos fogueiras
                                                     os carrascos nacerán,
                                                     e no dolmen en que'ibámos
                                                     de noite a sacrificar,
                                                     criáranse herbas e toxos
                                                     y-os mouchos aniñarán...
                                                     Cobrirán silvas y-adreiras
                                                     as pedras do noso lar,
                                                     e sobr'as mámoas dos mortos
                                                     xente allea pasará...
                                                     Cando se mova o penedo
                                                     qu'está na veira do mar
                                                     xa non irá xente nosa
                                                     con ofrendas a Teutás,
                                                     Ay! De todo o que nós temos
                                                     nin migallas quedarán...!

                                                            Así dixo o vello, e séntase,
                                                     cravando os ollos no chan.
                                                     E ó pé do castro, qu'as brétemas
                                                     da noite cubrindo van,
                                                     tamén de loito cuberto
                                                     maxinando tanto mal,
                                                     soliño, entr'as negras ruinas,
                                                     sóltase, o probe, a chorar!


                                                                      Sobreiras (Tuy), mes de Santiago do 1883

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