Where Lagan streams sing lullaby,|
There blows a lily fair.
The twilight gleam is in her eye,
The night is on her hair
And like a love-sick lenashee
She hath my soul in thrall.
No life have I, no liberty,
For love is lord of all.
And often when the beetle's horn|
Has lulled the eye to sleep,
I slip into her shieling lorn
And through the doorway creep.
There on the cricket's singing stone
She makes the bogwood fire.
Then comes that soft sweet undertone,
The song of heart's desire.
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