There‘s many a strong farmer

    Whose heart would break in two，

    If he could see the townland

    That we are riding to；

    Boughs have their fruit and blossom

    At all times of the year；

    Rivers are running over

    With red beer and brown beer.

    An old man plays the bagpipes

    In a golden and silver wood；

    Queens， their eyes blue like the ice，

    Are dancing in a crowd.

    The little fox he murmured，

    ‘O what of the world’s bane？‘

    The sun was laughing sweetly，

    The moon plucked at my rein；

    But the little red fox murmured，

    ‘O do not pluck at his rein，

    He is riding to the townland

    That is the world‘s bane.’

    When their hearts are so high

    That they would come to blows，

    They unhook their heavy swords

    From golden and silver boughs；

    But all that are killed in battle

    Awaken to life again.

    It is lucky that their story

    Is not known among men，

    For O， the strong farmers

    That would let the spade lie，

    Their hearts would be like a cup

    That somebody had drunk dry.

    The little fox he murmured，

    ‘O what of the world’s bane？‘

    The sun was laughing sweetly，

    The moon plucked at my rein；

    But the little red fox murmured，

    ‘O do not pluck at his rein，

    He is riding to the townland

    That is the world‘s bane.’

    Michael will unhook his trumpet

    From a bough overhead，

    And blow a little noise

    When the supper has been spread.

    Gabriel will come from the water

    With a fish-tail， and talk

    Of wonders that have happened

    On wet roads where men walk，

    And lift up an old horn

    Of hammered silver， and drink

    Till he has fallen asleep

    Upon the starry brink.

    The little fox he murmured，

    ‘O what of the world’s bane？‘

    The sun was laughing sweetly，

    The moon plucked at my rein；

    But the little red fox murmured，

    ‘O do not pluck at his rein，

    He is riding to the townland

    That is the world‘s bane.’