I seem to hear the rallying call
When daylight fades and shadows fall
And dusk is creeping up the glen,
The call to work of little men.
I seem to hear it louder still
When night is perched upon the hill,
When in the full moon’s spectral beam
I see the creatures of a dream.
The little dogs on silent feet
Trot up and down the village street.
Yn Tarroo Ushtey, gleaming bull,
Emerges from the swirling pool,
That lies below the silent hill
Where mist has gathered, low and still,
When in the elm trees witches crron
Their incantation to the moon.
Athwart the broken whitewashed wall
The shadows of the fairies fall;
A house beyond in pearly deeps
Through moonlit windows slyly peeps.
The ageing rafters sag and sway
Abandoned to their swift decay.
In front, a garden, tangled, wild,
By shears and sickle undefiled.
Within the porch a woman stands
And wrings in woe her fleshless hands,
Headless and horrid, tall and gaunt,
Decreed to stay in earthly haunt.
There once a year she stands to wait
For him who never comes. “Too late!
Too late!” she sighs unto the moon,
The great and golden harvest moon.
Barrule the lonely looms on high
Against the clear unclouded sky;
The waterfall in sullen tones
Leaps down between the trees and stones.
The rats with wicked eyes agleam
Tumble and play beside the stream;
Unearthly music fills the air
With cadences of old despair.