Where Lagan stream sings lullaby
There grows a young man fair
The twilight gleam is in his eye
The night is on his hair
And like a lovesick lenan he
He hath my heart in thrall
No life I owe no liberty
His love is lord of all
And often when the beetles` horn
Hath lulled the eve to sleep
I steal unto his shieling lorn
And thro` the dooring peep
There on the cricket`s singing stone
He spears the bird in fire
And hums in sad sweet undertone
The song of his desire