I remember a story told of a red-haired girl who never grew old,
who died when there came a great famine.
In one pale hand she owned a sheep's knucklebone,the other a sprig of winter jasmine.Though her kin all left for distant shores she still lies in repose,near the ruins of Carbury castle in Ireland.Irish lore has it written that the lass was once smitten,with a young lad who went off to war and then died in.Alas, it's been long that she's been dead and gone,listen.., you can still hear her mournful tune.She sings when gales blow near two barrows of old,o'er the green heath nestled 'neath Carraigdhoun.Crestfallen, he sails through still waters where dwells, Kilcullen's lost daughters,well preserved in the dark peat bog of Carbury.Be careful where your feet fall lest you join them in the deep halls,where the lost maidens of Own na Buidhe lie buried.
