Where Lagan stream sings lullaby, 
There blows a lily fair; 
When twilight gleam is in her eyes, 
The night is on her hair.
And like a love - sick lenashee, 
She hath my heart in thrall; 
No life have I, no liberty, 
With love is lord of all.
And sometimes when the beetles horn, 
Hath lulled the eve to sleep; 
I steal unto her shieling low, 
And through her dooreen peep.
There on the cricket's singing stone, 
She stirs the bog wood fire; 
And hums in soft sweet undertones, 
The song of heart's desire.
Her welcome like her love for me, 
Is from her heart within; 
Her warm kiss is felicity,