Last night the air was cold and still,
No breeze was moving in Glendhu;
The golden beech leaves scarcely stirred
Above my head as I went through.

From ev'ry cottage rose the smoke,
An' not a breath its column broke.
Brown in the glen the bracken grew,
No broken leaf or stem you'd find.

But after dawn the gale awoke,
The world seem'd rocking in the wind.
Across the Wicklow hills he came,
The herdsmen felt his great wings beat;

The waves of Lough Nahanagan
Were ruffled by his flying feet;
The Vale of Clara felt him pass
Swift-foot across the meadow-grass;

They heard him where the waters meet,
He made the pines and larches sway;
He cross'd the stream at Glenmacnass,
And blew the falls to silver spray.

They heard his pipes in Glenmalure,
He sang a song of western seas;
The withered leaves in Glendalough
Rose up and rustled round his knees;

He shook the beeches of Glendhu
To golden rain as he passed through.
He bent Glencullen's tallest trees,
His breath was rough on bird and beast,

Across the mountain tops he flew
To take his pleasure in the east.
Oh, wild wind from the distant west,
Be still again, and give us rest.