Crocuses and snowdrops push up their merry heads

The cairn on the woodland path marks the unburied dead

The fleeting wisps of winter, white detrius on the skeletal trees

The very occasional dew drop hanging with the weeds.

This man he is an old man, Gaelic and rare,

Who stares into the fire, in his isolated lair,

An bóthar ag taisteal na sióga....

Aye, the road that the fairies take, can lead us to despair

The sparkle on the sheen of a leaf, some say it's not there

The caw caw cawing of the screaming crow's flair for murder's in the air

With their stories of pillage and famine long ago:

This man is the servant of these spirits of the wood,

He listens very closely, second sight is in his blood.