Empty your heart of its mortal dream.

The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,

Caolte tossing his burning hair,

九*九*藏*書The host is rushing 『twixt night and day;

Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,

And Niamh caread.99csw.comlling, 「Away, come away.」

And if any gaze on our rushing band,

And Niamh calling, 「Away, come away;

And whread.99csw.comere is there hope or deed as fair?

And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;

We come between him and the hope of his heart.」

The host is riding from Knocknarea,

Caolte tossing his burning hair,

Ouｒｅａｄ•9９cｓw.ｃomr breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,

We come between him and the deed of his hand,

Our arms are waving, our lips are apart,