Our arms are waving our lips are apart;

And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;

And where is there hope or deed aread.99csw.coms fair?

The host is riding from Knocknarea

Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,

Caoilte tosread.99csw.comsing his burning hair,

We come between him and the deed of his hand,

And Niamh calling Away, come away九-九-藏-書:

Our breasts are heaving our eyes are agleam,

And if any gaze on our rushing band,

The winds awaken, the leaves w九*九*藏*書hirl round,

And Niamh calling Away, come away.

Caoilte tossing his burning hair,

The host is rushing twixt night and day九_九_藏_書,

We come between him and the hope of his heart.

Empty your heart of its mortal dream.