Was it the Good People stole you away, Little white changeling, Brigidin Ban? Carried you off in the ring of the dawn, Laid like a queen on her purple car, Carried you back 'twixt the night and the day; Gave you that fortune of flaxen hair, Gave you those eyes of wandering fire, Lit at the wheel of the southern star; Gave you that look so far away, Lip so waxen and cheek so wan? Tell me, tell me, Brigidin Ban, Little white bride of my heart's desire.
Wanderer of the mountain, Winger of the blue, From this stormy rock I send my love to you.
Take me for your lover, Dark and fierce and true-- Wanderer of the mountain, Winger of the blue!
"The loins of the Galldacht Shall wither like grass"-- Strange words I heard said At the Fair of Dun-eas.
"A bard shall be born Of the seed of the folk, To break with his singing The bond and the yoke.
"A sword, white as ashes, Shall fall from the sky, To rise, red as blood, On the charge and the cry.
"Stark pipers shall blow, Stout drummers shall beat, And the shout of the north Shall be heard in the street.
"The strong shall go down, And the weak shall prevail, And a glory shall sit On the sign of the Gaodhal.
"Then Emer shall come In good time by her own, And a man of the people Shall speak from the throne."
Strange words I heard said At the Fair of Dun-eas-- "The Gaodhaldacht shall live, The Galldacht shall pass!"
I met a walking-man; His head was old and grey. I gave him what I had To crutch him on his way. The man was Mary's Son, I'll swear; A glory trembled in his hair!
And since that blessed day I've never known the pinch: I plough a broad townland, And dig a river-inch; And on my hearth the fire is bright For all that walk by day or night.
My father and mother were Irish, And I am Irish, too; I bought a wee fidil for ninepence, And it is Irish, too. I'm up in the morning early To meet the dawn of day, And to the lintwhite's piping The many's the tune I play.
One pleasant eve in June time I met a lochrie-man: His face and hands were weazen, His height was not a span. He boor'd me for my fidil-- "You know," says he, "like you, My father and mother were Irish, And I am Irish, too!"
He took my wee red fidil, And such a tune he turned-- The Glaise in it whispered, The Lionan in it m'urned. Says he, "My lad, you're lucky-- I wish t' I was like you: You're lucky in your birth-star, And in your fidil, too!"