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,