Where All Roses Go - Anúna, Michael McGlynn, Ulster Orchestra

He shall not hear the bittern cry

In the wild sky, where he is lain

Nor voices of the sweeter birds

Above the wailing of the rain

Nor shall he know when loud March blows

Thro' slanting snows his fanfare shrill

Blowing to flame the golden cup

Of many’s the upset daffodil

Soon the swallows will be flying south

The winds wheel north to gather in the snow

Even the roses split on youth’s red mouth

Will soon blow down the road all roses go

But when the dark cow leaves the moor

And pastures poor with greedy weeds

Perhaps he’ll hear her low at morn

Lifting her horn in pleasant meads

Soon the swallows will be flying south

The winds wheel north to gather in the snow

Even the roses split on youth’s red mouth

Will soon blow down the road all roses go