Where Lagan streams sing lullabies, there blows a lily fair.
The twilight gleam is in her eye, the night is on her hair.
And like a lovesick lenashee, she hath my heart in thrall.
No life have I, no liberty, for love is Lord of all.
And sometimes when the beetles horn has lulled the eve to sleep,
I steal into her sheiling lorn and through the doorway creep.
There on the cricket's singing stone, she spares the bogwood fire
And hums in sad sweet and undertone the song of hearts desire.
Her welcome, like her love for me, is from her heart within
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