|
|
|
|
|
|
|
The october winds lament around the
castle of Dromore.
Yet peace is in its lofty halls, a phaisde ban a stor,
Though autumn winds may droop and die, a bud of spring are you,
|
Bring no ill will to hinder us,
my helpless babe and me,
Dread spirits of the Blackwater, Clann Eoghain's wild banshee;
And holy Mary pitying us in Heaven for grace doth sue.
|
Take time to thrive, my ray of
hope, in the garden of Dromore;
Take heed, young eaglet, till thy wings are fairer fit to soar.
A little rest, and then the world is full of work to do.
|
|
|
|