Текст Christy Moore – Aisling

See the bright new moon is rising
Above the land of black and green
Hear the rebels voices calling
I will not die till you bury me

The aunt upstairs in the bed she is calling
Why has he forsaken me
Faded pictures in the hallway
Which one of them brown ghosts is he

Bless the wind that shakes the barley
Curse the spade and curse the plough
I’ve counted years and weeks and days
And I wish to God I was with you now

Fare thee well me black-haired diamond
Fare thee well me own Aisling
At night fond dreams of you still haunt me
Far across the grey north sea

And the wind it blows from the North and South
To the East And to the West
I will be like the wind my love
For I will know no rest till I return to thee

1, 2, 3 telegraph poles
Standing on the cold black road
The night is fading into morning
Give us a drop of your sweet poit’n

The rain was lashing — the sun was rising
The wind was howling through the trees
The madness from the mountains crawling
When I saw you first my own Aisling

Bless the wind that shakes the barley
Curse the spade and curse the plough

Fare thee well my black haired diamond
Fare thee well my own Aisling
At night fond dreams of you still haunt me
Far across the grey north sea