We come between him and the deed of his hand,

Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,

Caolte tossing his burnin

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g hair,

And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;

The hos99lib.nett is rushing ‘twixt night and day;

And if any gaze on our rushing band,

We come between him and the hope of九*九*藏*书*网 his heart.”

Caolte tossing his burning hair,

Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,

And Niamh calling, “A九*九*藏*书*网way, come away;

Empty your heart of its mortal dream.

And where is there hope or deed as fair?

The winds awaken, the leaves

九九藏书网

whirl round,

Our arms are waving, our lips are apart,

The host is riding from Knocknarea,

And Niamh calling, “Away, come away.”