t is riding from Knocknarea
And over th-na-Bare;
Caoilte 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 agleam,
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?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.