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,