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,