The host is riding from Knocknarea

    And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare；

    Caoilte tossing his burning hair，

    And Niamh calling Away， come away：

    Empty your heart of its mortal dream.

    The winds awaken¹， the leaves whirl round，

    Our cheeks are pale， our hair is unbound，

    Our breasts are heaving， our eyes are agleam，

    Our arms are waving， our lips are apart；

    And if any gaze on our rushing band，

    We come between him and the deed of his hand，

    We come between him and the hope of his heart.

    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.

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