Crying Spirit Of The Night
The crying in the bight grew faint
by Tomás Ó Cárthaigh
As to listen for it I slow,
And there looks to be nothing now
Where there was a woman a while ago.
But then upon again walking
Beneath awindow stands
Crying, as she brushes her hair,
With a comb in age gnarled hands...
And I, though I have heard her
And before my eyes her vision didi appear
Of the Banshee, Cryer of the Dead,
I, passing, have no fear.
And theres some inside whove heard her,
And prayed as outside, she cried,
And another within, who heard her not,
Who later that night died.
Oh, to be born of noble blood
Folloed by the Banshee to be,
I wish that in my final hour
One as devoted prays for me.