The Hosting Of The Shee

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'

'Away, come away, away, away'.

The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round

Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound

Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam

Empty your heart of its mortal dream.

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'

'Away, come away, away, away'.

Our armsa-wave, our lips are apart

And if anything gaze on our rushing band

We come between him and the hope of his heart

We come between him and the deed of his hand.

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'

'Away, come away, away, away, away, away...'.