a green sunny Isle on the depths of Lough-Mask,
Where the sand-snipes all joy on the pebbled shore bask ;
Where from rocks sing the Whitethroats enchantingly sweet,
To appease the chafed billows that fret at their feet.
There are shades in that isle to veil lovers' kind glances ;
There's a green in the midst for each light foot that dances :
Thither then let the oars dash the shallop along;
For we'll there give the morning to dance and to song.
Let the mountains send forth their fair damsels to-day ;
Let the boats fraught with music too follow away:
We'll debark on that isle with the mountains' fair daughters ;
But the music shall come stealing over the waters.
To the witch-time of twilight we'll dance and we'll sing,
Till the dew-slippered fairies come claiming the ring ;
Then thy harp, my sweet Bride, shall their angry spell break,
And shall win thee the love of those elfs of the lake.
There's an octagon temple on that sunny isle,
Where the wine in cold cups of rock-crystal shall smile ;
There those fairies shall join in the feast of the gay,
And shall pledge thee, my Bride, the young Queen of the May.
