His curling locks in wavy grace,
Like beams on youthful Phœbus' brow;
Flit wild and golden o'er his speaking face.
And down his ivory shoulders flow.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
Like Engus3 is he in his youthful days,
Or Mac Cein whose deeds all Erin knows;
Mac Dary's chiefs of deathless praise.
Who hung like fate on their routed foes.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
Like Connall the beseiger, pride of his race!
Or Fergus son of a glorious sire;
Or blameless Connor son of courteous Nais,
The chief of the Red Branch—Lord of the Lyre.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
The cuckoo's voice is not heard on the gale,
Nor the cry of the hounds in the nutty grove;
Nor the hunter's cheering through the dewy vale,
Since far—far away is the Youth of our love.
Chorus—My heart—it danced, &c.
