Silent, O Moyle, be the roar of thy water,
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.
When shall the swan, her death-note singing,
Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd?
When will heav'n, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?

From Song of Fionnuala by
Thomas Moore

One of my favourite Irish folktales is that of the Children of Lir
who were turned into swans by their jealous step-mother and condemned
to swim on the stormy seas for 900 years until the bell
of Christianity is sounded in Ireland .