Hosting of the Sidhe

Hosting Of The Sidhe - Primordial

The host is riding from Knockarea

And over the graves of Clooth-na-bare;

Caolte tossing his burning hair

And Niamh calling away come away:

Empty your heart if it's mortal dream

The winds awaken the leaves whirl round

Our cheeks are pale our hair is unbound

Our breasts are heaving our eyes are a-gleam

Our arms are waving our lips are apart;

And if any gaze on our rushing band

We come between him and the hope of his heart

We come between him and the hope of his heart

The host is rushing 'twixt night and day

And where is there hope or deed as fair

Caolte tossing his burning hair

And Niamh calling away come away