Knee-deep she waded in the pool —
The Banshee robed in green —
She sang yon song the whole night long,
And washed the linen clean;
The linen that would wrap the dead
She beetled on a stone,
She stood with dripping hands, blood-red,
Low singing all alone —
His linen robes are pure and white,
For Fergus More must die to-night!
‘ Twas Fergus More rode o'er the hill,
Come back from foreign wars,
His horse's feet were clattering sweet
Below the pitiless stars;
And in his heart he would repeat —
“O never again I'll roam;
All weary is the going forth,
But sweet the coming home!”
His linen robes are pure and white,
For Fergus More must die to-night!
He saw the blaze upon his hearth
Come gleaming down the glen;
For he was fain for home again,
And rode before his men —
“‘ Tis many a weary day,” he'd sigh,
“Since I would leave her side;
I'll never more leave Scotland's shore
And yon, my dark-eyed bride.”
His linen robes are pure and white,
For Fergus More must die to-night!
So dreaming of her tender love,
Soft tears his eyes would blind —
When up there crept and swiftly leapt
A man who stabbed behind —
“‘ Tis you,” he cried, “who stole my bride,
This night shall be your last!”...
When Fergus fell, the warm, red tide
Of life came ebbing fast...
His linen robes are pure and white,
For Fergus More must die to-night!