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'S ann tha mo run's na beanntaibh, Far bheil mo ribhinn ghreannar, Mar ros am fasach shamhraidh An gleann fad o shuil. After the verse the full chorus broke forth again Ho ro, mo nighean, etc. Swiftly the pointer shot down the current, the swaying bodies and swinging oars in perfect rhythm with the song that rose and fell with melancholy but musical cadence.
Many a time, of a winter night, when seated at her spinning-wheel, singing the Trougha, or Shuil agra, or some other old "song of sorrow," have I, then little more than a child, gone over to her, and with a broken voice and eyes charged with tears, whispered, "Mother dear, don't sing that song, it makes me sorrowful;" she then usually stopped, and sung some one which I liked better because it affected me less.
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