Oh, it‘ s gray rain in the valleys,
White rain where the moorland lies,
And in from the bleak sea-borders
A gust that keens and cries.
Sheep huddle in the hollows,
And the cattle seek the byre,
But I must be up and faring
Away from the warm peat fire;
I must be up and faring,
For this is the hour of tryst,
And Sheilah will be waiting
At the glen amid the mist.
Oh, what‘ s gray rain to lovers,
And what though white rains fall,
When blue skies shine in Sheilah's eyes
For a lad of Donegal!