Caolte tossing his burning hair,
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.”
The host is riding from Knocknarea,
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
And Niamh calling, “Away, come away.”
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The host is rushing ‘twixt night and day;
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
And Niamh calling, “Away, come away;
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart,
