Children of Lir
Upon the lake
Under light of moon
The swans sing
Songs of great sorrow

Restless they wait
For the curse to end
Innocent
Condemned to exile

Cast out
On their own
With no place
To call home

Cursed hand
The witch had played
900 years
Doomed to wait

As the nights
Grow more cold
Still they roam
With hope they shiver
With human voice
They wail at night
Through lonely centuries
All friends have died

Discarded
Left to roam
The lonely lands
Year after year

Wandering
With no return
To the hall of gods
Til the bell is rung

And in the end
A new god comes
To the Celtic lands
And the old gods fall

Baptised
By a holy man
They return to form
Withered they die