They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,
Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare;
The heavy-sliding stream in its sleep song they leave,
And the crags in the ghostly air.
And linking hand and hand, and singing as they go,
The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their fearless way,
Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow
Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey.
The hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,
Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;