| |
| WHERE glows the Irish hearth with peat | |
| There lives a subtle spell— | |
| The faint blue smoke, the gentle heat, | |
| The moorland odours tell. | |
| |
| Of white roads winding by the edge | 5 |
| Of bare, untamèd land, | |
| Where dry stone wall or ragged hedge | |
| Runs wide on either hand. | |
| |
| To cottage lights that lure you in | |
| From rainy Western skies; | 10 |
| And by the friendly glow within | |
| Of simple talk, and wise, | |
| |
| And tales of magic, love or arms | |
| From days when princes met | |
| To listen to the lay that charms | 15 |
| 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! | 20 |
| |
| 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 | 25 |
| 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, | 30 |
| The soul of Ireland seems to bend | |
| Above her children there. | |
