Or tales of magic, love and arms
From days when princes met
To listen to the lay that charms
The Connacht peasant yet.

There Honour shines through passions dire,
There beauty blends with mirth--
Wild hearts, ye never did aspire
Wholly for things of earth!

Cold, cold this thousand years--yet still
On many a time-stained page
Your pride, your truth, your dauntless will,
Burn on from age to age.

And still around the fires of peat
Live on the ancient days;
There still do living lips repeat
The old and deathless lays.

And when the wavering wreaths ascend,
Blue in the evening air,
The soul of Ireland seems to bend
Above her children there.




BARDIC ROMANCES