As mists of the evening creep over the hill And the sea round about her is silent and still Forbidden dark island so dreary and cold What mysterious tales can your black rocks unfold While fishermen row past your dark ocean shore And old wives are spinning and praying once more No falsehood to dread no malice you hold You are sworn to your secrets of stories untold
2. The old men will tell not a bird or a nest
3. But tho' they've not seen they'll tell what they know |
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