Hosting of the Sidhe Lyrics

	作曲 : MacUilliam, Yeats
	The host is riding from
	Knockarea
	And over the graves of
	Clooth-na-bare;
	Caolte tossing his burning hair
	And Niamh calling away, come away:
	Empty your heart if it's mortal dream,
	The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
	Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
	Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
	Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
	And if any gaze on our rushing band,
	We come between him and the hope of his heart
	We come between him and the hope of his heart
	The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,
	And where is there hope or deed as fair?
	Caolte tossing his burning hair
	And Niamh calling away, come away. [Dedicated to William Butler Yeats, one of Eire's greatest sons]

	zuo qu : MacUilliam, Yeats
	The host is riding from
	Knockarea
	And over the graves of
	Cloothnabare
	Caolte tossing his burning hair
	And Niamh calling away, come away:
	Empty your heart if it' s mortal dream,
	The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
	Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
	Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
	Our arms are waving, our lips are apart
	And if any gaze on our rushing band,
	We come between him and the hope of his heart
	We come between him and the hope of his heart
	The host is rushing ' twixt night and day,
	And where is there hope or deed as fair?
	Caolte tossing his burning hair
	And Niamh calling away, come away. Dedicated to William Butler Yeats, one of Eire' s greatest sons

	zuò qǔ : MacUilliam, Yeats
	The host is riding from
	Knockarea
	And over the graves of
	Cloothnabare
	Caolte tossing his burning hair
	And Niamh calling away, come away:
	Empty your heart if it' s mortal dream,
	The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
	Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
	Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,
	Our arms are waving, our lips are apart
	And if any gaze on our rushing band,
	We come between him and the hope of his heart
	We come between him and the hope of his heart
	The host is rushing ' twixt night and day,
	And where is there hope or deed as fair?
	Caolte tossing his burning hair
	And Niamh calling away, come away. Dedicated to William Butler Yeats, one of Eire' s greatest sons

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