Where Lagan stream 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; Nor life I owe, nor liberty, For Love is lord of all.
And often when the beetles horn Hath lulled the eve to sleep, I steal unto her shieling lorn And thro' the dooring peep. There on the cricket's singing stone She spares the bog wood fire. And hums in sad sweet undertone The song of heart's desire.