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IT'S A FAR, FAR CRY
It's a far, far cry to my own land,
A hundred leagues or more, To moorlands where the fairies flit
In Rosses and Gweedore, Where white-maned waves come prancing up
To Dooran's rugged shore.
There's a cabin there by a holy well,
Once blessed by Columbcille, And a holly bush and a fairy fort
On the slope of Glenties Hill, Where the dancing feet of many winds
Go roving at their will.