Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow
Yet, wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me.
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make
my climate, wherever we roam.
To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can
haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.
I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp as wildly it breathes;
Nor dread that
the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair