Blackthorn کے بول

So many men think that I am theirs When I sit with them, when I drink with them Nothing compares to all that was shared Between you and I, between you and I Snow falls on the mountain of Sliabh Uí Fhloinn And my love is like sloe-blossom on the blackthorn So many men reach for the highest branch To find the bitter fruit, to find the bitter fruit Close within reach of the hand lies the sweetest berry On the lowest branch, on the lowest branch Snow falls on the mountain of Sliabh Uí Fhloinn And my love is like sloe-blossom on the blackthorn 1