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 tosｈtｔps://ｒeaｄ.9９cｓw.ｃｏmsing his burning hair,

We come between him and the deed of his hand,

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

Our breasts are heaving our eyes are agleam,

And if any gaze on our rushing band,

The winds awaken, the leave九九藏書s whirl round,

And Niamh calling Away, come away.

Caoilte tossing his burning hair,

The host is rushing twixt night and dayhttps://read.99csw.com,

We come between him and the hope of his heart.

Empty your heart of its mortal dream.