And it laughs o’er many a vale, Sheltered safe from storm and gale; Sky and sun and stars thereof Love the gentle plant I love.
Soft it clothes the ruined floor, Of many an abbey, grey and hoar, And the still home of the dead With its green is carpeted.
Roses for an hour of love, With the joy and pain thereof; Stand my lilies white to see All for prayer and purity.
These are white as the harvest moon, Roses flush like the heart of June; But my shamrock brave and gay, Glads the tired eyes every day.
O the red rose shineth rare, And the lily saintly fair; But my shamrock, one in three, Takes the inmost heart of me!
A terrible and splendid trust Heartens the host of Inisfail: Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust, A lighting glory of the Gael.
Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers, And Tara the assembling place: But each sweet wind of Ireland bears The trump of battle on its race.
From Dursey Isle to Donegal, From Howth to Achill, the glad noise Rings: and the heirs of glory fall, Or victory crowns their fighting joys.
A dream! a dream! an ancient dream! Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail, Some weapons on some field must gleam, Some burning glory fire the Gael.
That field may lie beneath the sun, Fair for the treading of an host: That field in realms of thought be won, And armed minds do their uttermost:
Some way, to faithful Inisfail, Shall come the majesty and awe Of martial truth, that must prevail, To lay on all the eternal law.
O, the East is but West, with the sun a little hotter; And the pine becomes a palm, by the dark Egyptian water: And the Nile’s like many a stream we know, that fills its brimming cup,-- We’ll think it is the Ottawa, as we track the batteaux up! _Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! It’s easy shooting homeward, when we’re at the top!_
O, the cedar and the spruce line each dark Canadian river; But the thirsty date is here, where the sultry sunbeams quiver; And the mocking mirage spreads its view, afar on either hand; But strong we bend the sturdy oar, towards the Southern land!
O, we’ve tracked the Rapids up, and o’er many a portage crossing; And it’s often such we’ve seen, though so loud the waves are tossing! Then, it’s homeward when the run is o’er! o’er stream, and ocean deep-- To bring the memory of the Nile, where the maple shadows sleep!