Our arms are waving our lips are apart;

And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;

And where is there hope or deed a九*九*藏*書s fair?

The host is riding from Knocknarea

Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,

Caoilte tossing hirｅａｄ•9９cｓw•ｃoｍs burning hair,

We come between him and the deed of his hand,

And Niamh calling Away, come away:

Our breread.99csw.comasts are heaving our eyes are agleam,

And if any gaze on our rushing band,

The winds awaken, the leaves whirl 九*九*藏*書round,

And Niamh calling Away, come away.

Caoilte tossing his burning hair,

The host is rushing twixt night and day,

W九*九*藏*書e come between him and the hope of his heart.

Empty your heart of its mortal dream.