It is not on her gown
She fears to tread;
It is her hair
Which tumbles down
And strays
About her ways
That she must care.
And she lives nigh this place:
The dead would rise
If they could see her face;
The dead would rise
Only to hear her sing:
But death is blind, and gives not ear nor eye
To anything.
We would leave behind
Both wife and child,
And house and home;
And wander blind,
And wander thus,
And ever roam,
If she would come to us
In Erris.
Softly she said to me —
Be patient till the night comes,
And I will go with thee.