The long gray twilights and white morns through.
Wild merrows sing, and strange fishes hover
Avourneen deelish, your Moirin's lonely,
And Achill sands have not kept for my lover
I send my voice on their wings to you,-
The hill-winds coming, the hill-winds going,
I dream and I wake and I listen only
And is the day of our meeting near?
The fading print of my footsteps' track.
But the bed I lie in might yet hold two!
Out where the green sea meets the blue.
For over my head the waves are brawling,
And where's the charm that shall bid it back?
Above my bed o' the pale sea-wrack,
And I shall never come back to you!
For the sound of your footfall kind and dear.
Dark water's flowing my dark head over,
The tides are rising, the tides are falling,
And how will I answer or come to you?
Come down to me now, for there's no knowing
To you, mo bouchal, whose boat is blowing
I hear the hill-winds. I hear them calling
Under the sea all my nights are lonely,
Wanting a song that I used to hear.