The wailing woman on the Cliffs of Moher

Alarms the locals at Liscannor

Why does she whine so whistfully for?

As the clock strikes, twenty three : fifty four

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Fifteen eighty eight supplies the answer

For the neverending necromancer

As the Spanish fleet, wrecked. Disaster

And souls lost at sea can never answer

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With cracked complexion Bean Sí keens

As the bay is filled with her selfish screams

Cliff and ocean survey the scenes

For sailors souls and desperate dreams

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Her fate is one of a living dread

As red hair shrieks from her raucous head

To outlive the land and ocean-bed

Without mortal coil to make her dead.