In Tír-Na N-Og

In Tír-na’n-Og,
In Tír-na’n-Og,
The sagans sway this way and that; the twisted fern uncloses,
The quicken-berry hides its red above the tender roses,

In Tír-na’n-Og,
In Tír-na’n-Og,
The blackbird lilts; the robin chirps; the linnet wearies never,
They pipe to dancing feet of Sidhe and thus shall pipe for ever.

In Tír-na’n-Og,
In Tír-na’n-Og,
All in a drift of apple-blooms my true love there is roaming,
He will not come although I pray from dawning until gloaming.

In Tír-na’n-Og,
In Tír-na’n-Og,
The Sidhe desired my Heart’s Delight, they lured him from my keeping,
He stepped within a fairy ring while all the world was sleeping.

In Tír-na’n-Og,
In Tír-na’n-Og,
He hath forgotten hill and glen where misty shadows gather,
The bleating of the mountain sheep, the cabin of his father.

In Tír-na’n-Og,
In Tír-na’n-Og,
He wanders in a happy dream thro’ scented golden hours;
He flutes, to woo a fairy love, knee deep in fairy flowers.

In Tír-na’n-Og,
In Tír-na’n-Og,
No memory hath he of my face, no sorrow for my sorrow,
My flax is spun, my wheel is hushed, and so I wait the morrow.