Where Lagan stream sings lullaby,
There blows a lily fair;
When twilight gleam is in her eyes,
The night is on her hair.
And like a love – sick lenashee,
She hath my heart in thrall;
No life have I, no liberty,
With love is lord of all.
And sometimes when the beetles horn,
Hath lulled the eve to sleep;
I steal unto her shieling low,
And through her dooreen peep.
There on the cricket’s singing stone,
She stirs the bog wood fire;
And hums in soft sweet undertones,
The song of heart’s desire.
Her welcome like her love for me,
Is from her heart within;
Her warm kiss is felicity,