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"Come, sing a new song to her here while we listen!"
 * They cry to her sons who sing;

And one sings: "Mavourneen, it makes the eyes glisten
 * To think how the sorrows cling,

Like the clouds on your mountains, wreathing
 * Their green to a weeping gray!"

And the bard with his passionate breathing
 * Has no other sweet word to say.

"Come sing a new song!" and their eyes, while they're speaking,
 * Are dreaming of far-off things;

And their hearts are away for the old words seeking.
 * Unheeding of him who sings.