The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-Bare;
Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling [bad word] away:
b  Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
   The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
   Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
   Our [bad word] are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
c1 Our arms are waving, out lips are apart;
c2 And if any gaze on [bad word] band,
   [bad word] between him and the deed of his hand,
   [bad word] between him and the hope of his heart.
a  The host [bad word] 'twixt night and day,
   And where is there hope or deed as fair?
   Caoilte tossing his burning hair,
   And Niamh calling [bad word] away.