The old brown thorn-trees break in two high over c*mmen Strand
Under a bitter black wind that blows from the left hand;
Our courage breaks like an old tree in a black wind and dies
But we have hidden in our hearts the flame out of the eyes
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan
The wind has bundled up the clouds high above Knocknarea
And thrown the thunder on the stones for all that Maeve can say
Angers that are like noisy clouds have set out hearts abeat;
But we have all bent low and low and kissed the quiet feet
Of Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan
The yellow pool has overflowed high up on Clooth-na-Bare
For the wet winds are blowing out of the clinging air;
Like heavy flooded waters our bodies and our blood;
But purer than a tall candle before the Holy Rood
Is Cathleen, the daughter of Houlihan