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Six slow steeds will my body bear,
To fret or prance they will not care,
And no handmaiden with me would dwell
(Hark! the tolling of the passing bell.)

O Lady Aideen, will you name for me, name for me who won my refusing?
Who hath the singing and all the sun on earth for ever and I the losing?
(Oh, the plough horses going off from me, sorrow and tears will my harvest be.)
My arms were strong for your woman’s fear;
My heart were weak for your loving, dear.
What can he give whom you will not name?
(Clings a winding-sheet by the candle’s flame.)

O Earl Desmond, be you brave for sorrow, brave for sorrow which is no man’s shielding;
Love has wept till his eyes grew blind, and victory’s not in a weapon’s yielding.
(Six black horses awaiting me, the ring of the spade has ceased to be.)
My lord is named with a bated breath.
Whom hope calls ‘Life’ and despair names ‘Death.’
And, oh, his love no world can kill!
(The banshee waits on the window-sill.)