t is riding from Knoarea

        And over th-na-Bare;

        Caoilte tossing his burning hair,

        And Niamh calling Away, e 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 e between he deed of his hand,

        e e between .

        t is rus night and day,

        And where hope or deed as fair?

        Caoilte tossing his burning hair,

        And Niamh calling Away, e away.
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