“The host is rushing 'twixt day and night,And where is there hope or deed as fair?Caoilte tossing his burning hair,And Niamh calling Away, come away.”

“THE HOST is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare; Caolte tossing his burning hair And Niamh calling Away, come away: Empty your heart of its mortal dream. The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round, Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound, Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam, Our arms are waving, our lips are apart; And if any gaze on our rushing band, We come between him and the deed of his hand, We come between him and the hope of his heart. The host is rushing ’twixt night and day, And where is there hope or deed as fair? Caolte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling Away, come away”

“Discharge my followers; let them hence away,From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.”

“Better do a good deed near at home than go far away to burn incense.”

“And on this dirty night there were appropriately dirty deeds that not even the rain could wash away.”

“Do not give hope where there is none.Do not turn away hope where there is seldom some.”