Morning
There’s a gale upon Lough Corrib
A dry and hearty blow
The great white clouds are racing
The sand is flying low
See the white horses running
Far as the eye can mark
And hear them tumbling crashing
Against the Point of Park
The wildly waving bracken
On Cappagarif scan
And see the trees a-rocking
Throughout the wood of Glann
Along the shore the Alders
In wanton riot sway
The wild swans come for shelter
To Currarevagh Bay
Evening
Annaghminogue’s dark shadow
Rests on the placid lake,
The Alders and the bracken
No sound nor movement make,
The waves are now but ripples
The swans are far away
And dusk in quietness closes
On Currarevagh Bay
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