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.

[16]

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.

[17]

[17]

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