NANCY WALSH
Reading edition
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.