In the magic hour, when the moon is low
And the sky's the kind of blue
That you think you know but you don't know
The Turfcutter's Donkey runs around
And all the fairy children, they run around
And all the other children
They make no sound

In that hour, if you're on the coast
And the waves nip at your heels like a dog
Pull me closer
It's past the time of the dinner bell
But before the shine of Orion's belt
The sky is still bluer than a bluebell

Oh when I go
Won't you throw my bones to the fish
And weigh my body down
With sticks and stones?
Bury me not in the old graveyard
Where all my friends are
Beneath the heather on the high hillside
Death is a lonely bride

In the magic hour, when the moonlight gleams
And the sky is the kind of
Gray that you've never seen
Till you've seen it
Run down to the Virgin Mary's bank
Where our mothers cried and our fathers drank
We're all just trying to see
Where the ship sank

In that hour, if you listen hard
You can hear my granddaddy singing far away
Like an evening star
Songs of an old Ireland
Songs about being young again
I wish I was young again

Oh when I go
Won't you throw my bones to the fish
And weigh my body down
With sticks and stones?
Bury me not in the old graveyard
Where all my friends are
Beneath the heather on the high hillside
Death is a lonely bride

Copyright: RIFF CITY SOUNDS, LLC
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