Midnight - Anúna, Michael McGlynn, Ulster Orchestra

Then in the lull of midnight

Then in the lull of midnight, gentle arms

Lifted him slowly down the slopes of death

Lest he should hear again the mad alarms

Of battle, dying moans, and painful breath

And where the earth was soft for flowers we made

A grave for him that he might better rest

So spring shall come and leave it sweet arrayed

And there the lark shall turn her dewy nest