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Good morning, Brigid, I can hear the bell
Is it even real? Who knows?
Is there a sheep gone down in the well?
Now the bleating grows
Feel the fire thrown from her hand
Better burnt than froze
If there a darkness over the land
Winter wind follows
Up to the stream, asleep on the moss
My finger in the flows
If I dream, then what is the loss
Here in sweet repose?
If I fell in the water, I'd see where it goes
If you should see me pass
Give love to my lass and my good fellows
Leave next to the spring a primrose
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