Husheen, the herons are crying 
Away in the rain and the sleet, 
Flying and flying and flying, 
With never a rest for their feet. 

But warm in your coverlid nestle, 
Wee Bird, till the dawn of the day, 
Nor dream of the wild wings that wrestle 
In the night and the rain and the grey. 

Come, sweetheart, the bright ones would bring you 
By the magical meadows and streams, 
With the light of your dreaming they build you 
A house on the hill of your dreams. 

But you stir in your sleep and you murmur, 
As though the wild rain and the grey 
Wet hills, with the wind ever blowing 
Had driven your dreams away. 

And dearer the wind in its crying, 
And the secrets the wet hills hold, 
Than the goldenest place they could find you 
In the heart of a country of gold.