In Tír-Na N-Og

In Tír-na'n-Og, In Tír-na'n-Og, The sagans sway this way and that; the twisted fern uncloses, The quicken-berry hides its red above the tender roses, In Tír-na'n-Og, In Tír-na'n-Og, The blackbird lilts; the robin chirps; the linnet wearies never, They pipe to dancing feet of Sidhe and thus shall pipe for ever. In Tír-na'n-Og, In Tír-na'n-Og, All in a drift of apple-blooms my true love there is roaming, He will not come although I pray from dawning until gloaming. In Tír-na'n-Og, In Tír-na'n-Og, The Sidhe desired my Heart's Delight, they lured him from my keeping, He stepped within a fairy ring while all the world was sleeping. In Tír-na'n-Og, In Tír-na'n-Og, He hath forgotten hill and glen where misty shadows gather, The bleating of the mountain sheep, the cabin of his father. In Tír-na'n-Og, In Tír-na'n-Og, He wanders in a happy dream thro' scented golden hours; He flutes, to woo a fairy love, knee deep in fairy flowers. In Tír-na'n-Og, In Tír-na'n-Og, No memory hath he of my face, no sorrow for my sorrow, My flax is spun, my wheel is hushed, and so I wait the morrow.