Where Lagan streams sings lullaby
There blows a lily fair
The twilight gleam is in her eye
The night is on her hair
And, like a love sick lenanshee
She hath my heart in thrall
No life I owe, no liberty,
For love is lord of all
And often when the beetle's horn
Has lulled the eve to sleep,
I steal into her shieling lorn,
And through the doorway creep,
There on the crickets' singing-stone
She makes the bogwood fire,
And sings in sad sweet and undertone,
