The Hosting Of The Shee

The host is riding from KnocknareaAnd over the grave of Clooth-na-BareCaoilte tossing his burning hairAnd Niamh calling: 'Away, come away'Away, come away, away, away'.The winds awaken, the leaves whirl roundOur cheeks are pale, our hair is unboundOur breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleamEmpty your heart of its mortal dream.The host is riding from KnocknareaAnd over the grave of Clooth-na-BareCaoilte tossing his burning hairAnd Niamh calling: 'Away, come away'Away, come away, away, away'.Our armsa-wave, our lips are apartAnd if anything gaze on our rushing bandWe come between him and the hope of his heartWe come between him and the deed of his hand.The host is riding from KnocknareaAnd over the grave of Clooth-na-BareCaoilte tossing his burning hairAnd Niamh calling: 'Away, come away'Away, come away, away, away, away, away...'.