Upon the mornings air
the lark sings here tender care
carves upon the nestled land
Her haunting sweet hand.
She births again the faint dream
that once upon a fable did stream
the cults and plains so long ago
Of the realms of the shadows that flow,
For here upon the isle of green
where mantel dressed perfect sheen
she arose where the beds of night graced deep the form
of the western wind, the gales storm
Where the ancient race drew and held their peace
upon old Erin like a golden fleece
The times when Erin stood proud and strong
And the people lived life as a song.
These valleys rich in fertile soil
the web of life's burning coal
She sang the dew drops of life
spread her wings against all strife
and made a people rich and bright
That would birth the world anew.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

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