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...'.
|
|
-----------------
|
The Hosting Of The Shee
|
| The Waterboys |
