t is riding from Knocknarea,

    And over th-na-bare;

    Caolte 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 a-gleam,

    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?

    Caolte tossing his burning hair,

    And Niamh calling, “Away, come away.”