she lifted up her voice in loud keening. So sad was her cry that the pitying wind bore it down upon his wings into the little village at the foot of the mountain, that the people might hear and pray for a soul in its passing.
But the people in the village were busy even so late with the harvest, and did not hear; only in one house where a mother sat with her sick child did the cry come, and she closed the shutter and fell to prayer.
‘'Tis the banshee who crieth,’ she whispered, ‘and my Conneen so ill! 'Tis the banshee, and Sheila with the cheek of snow. God bid the fairy pass, and set the angels at my door! Whisht!’ she cried to the playing young ones, ‘come beside my chair and pray.’
And of her fear shall I sing, lest thou grow weary of my prose:
Oh, whisht! I hear the banshee keen,
All woeful is her cry.
She comes along the gray boreen—
Pray God she pass us by.
