FLITTING-SONG OF THE SWANS.
1
Our beautiful feathers
Must we drench in salt surges,
No night brine-unbittered
For the Children of Lir!
2
Farewell, Derryvarragh,
Farewell, friendly faces,
To the gulls and the curlews
Fly the Children of Lir.
16
Loud was the Swans' lament, and loud the grief of Lir,
And long the lamentation and the love between them there.
Then the four Swans soared high, and swiftly to the north
Flew from the eyes of Lir, and lit on Sruth-na-Moyle.
This is the song of the flitting of the Swans,
Of songs most mournful,
Sorrowful is my song!
