At the hour the sweet morning starBegins to soften and melt,His well-horned mountain goatsTrotting along in front,Temenday the Celtic shepherd comesReturning to his sweet foldAlone and singing through the broomOf Xallas, decked with heather so white.Trembling vague with solitude,He begins his song like this:“Ancient tomb of Pïosa,The wind so sad to hearMoans in the mute heatherOver all the hills around youAnd pierces with animal roar

Castromaior, near Portomarín

With pained groan.Under your mantleBrave Brandomil liesUnforgotten, in the armsOf sweet and eternal sleep:He has on his right sideHis golden pagan helmetHis strong spear and shield,Where once the sun would sparkleWhile with pleasure the Celts lookedShut up in the waste lands of Xallas.

Oh, brave son of OgasAnd of sweet and noble Eiriz,The long memory of youWill forever remain!And when the son of the Celts,In times yet to comeWalking lost in thoughtMay happen to pass this way,When in those timesHe sees the moon shiningSpying you afar, he will say:‘Brave Brandomil,Of the good pagan raceOf Celts, lies here at rest!’”

Queixumes dos Pinos, ed. Miguel Mato Fondo ( Vigo: AS.PG, 1996)