The cuckoo calls o’er Clare’s green lanes,
Dermot’s box sings soft refrains;
heels turn light on cottage floors,
whirling heart to Sligo’s shores.
Fiddle laughs, the moonlight sways,
love is timed in three-four pace;
round we go where river flows,
cuckoo watches, twilight glows.
Till the last note bids us stay,
waltz the night, then fly away.