We come between him and the deed of his hand,
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Our breasts are heaving our eyes are agleam,
The host is riding from Knocknarea
Our arms are waving our lips areapart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
The Hosting Of The Sidhe
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
Our cheeks are pale, our hair isunbound,
The host is rushing twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
