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Whisht!" she cried to the playing young ones, "come beside my chair and pray." And of her fear shall I sing, lest thou grow weary of my prose: Oh, whisht! I hear the banshee keen, All woful is her cry. She comes along the gray boreen Pray God she pass us by. My wee Conneen is pale and weak, I hold him to my side; The rose is white on Sheila's cheek Since her young lover died.
But the people in the village were busy even so late with the harvest, and did not hear; only in one house where a mother sat with her sick child did the cry come, and she closed the shutter and fell to prayer. "'Tis the banshee who crieth," she whispered, "and my Conneen so ill! 'Tis the banshee, and Sheila with the cheek of snow. God bid the fairy pass, and set the angels at my door!
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