And her looks are sweet, and her heart is gay,
Yet a woeful wight is he;
He wakes the woods with his bugle horn,
But his heart is heavy and sore;
And he ever shuns those crags forlorn
By lone Kilbrannon shore.
For down in the lake the dead won't rest,
That vengeful murdered one;
With her little babe at her pulseless breast,
She walks the waters lone;