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.