  Oh, it ’s gray rain in the valleys, White rain where the moorland lies, And in from the bleak sea-borders A gust that keens and cries. Sheep huddle in the hollows, And the cattle seek the byre, But I must be up and faring Away from the warm peat fire; I must be up and faring, For this is the hour of tryst, And Sheilah will be waiting At the glen amid the mist. Oh, what ’s gray rain to lovers, And what though white rains fall, When blue skies shine in Sheilah’s eyes For a lad of Donegal! |
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