With winter at the mouth, white swans have gone
and the black, proceeding south down the grey dawn.

Cry after them, cry out over the town,
Ensnare them with a shout, “Bring the swans down.”

The summer flies away where the swans crossed
And streaks across the grey, southward and lost.

No man may call them back, once the swans fly,
the white swans and the black, down the grey sky.

Tommy Makem & Liam Clancy

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