It is not on her gown 
She fears to tread ; 
It is her hair 
Which tumbles down 
And strays 
About her ways 
That she must care. 
And she lives nigh this place : 
The dead would rise 
If they could see her face ; 
The dead would rise 
Only to hear her sing : 
But death is blind, and gives not ear nor eye 
To anything.
We would leave behind 
Both wife and child, 
And house and home ; 
And wander blind, 
And wander thus, 
And ever roam, 
If she would come to us 
In Erris. 
Softly she said to me 
Be patient till the night comes, 
And I will go with thee.