t is riding from Knocknarea,
And over th-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling, “Away, come away;
Empty your of its mortal dream.
the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are ,
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
e come between he deed of his hand,
e come between .”
t is rus night and day;
And where hope or deed as fair?
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling, “Away, come away.”