Ireland

Oh, it’s you that are the Wistful Land, the Land of Singing Winds, —

You’ve kissed your sorrows into stars and crowned your black, black hair,

And Life has colored Dreams of you with gallant scarlet blood and true,

And armed your poets with a sword . . . those dreamers debonair!

Oh, it’s you that are the Haunting Land, the Land one takes to wife, —

You set your sweet mouth to a man’s and breathe his soul to fire,

And oh, the sea-strong surge of you, the spell and ache and urge of you,

The Land of Beauty that you are — of heart’s most high Desire!

Oh, it’s you that have the brave young voice to cloak the bitter tears, —

And it’s you that have the white, white hands to guide your lads . . . and cling,

And oh, no man is free from you, he’ll come from land and sea to you,

The Land of Sun-jewelled waters and of wild, wild gulls a-wing!

Oh, it’s you that are the Princess in a living Fairy tale, —

You are calling from your towers where they hold you shackled yet,

But more sure than sun and tide and sea, the Prince shall come to strike you free,

Oh, Land of dim green Loveliness, which no man can forget!

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