Where the saints of Holy Ireland sleep No chancels pen them round, But the waving trees their vigils keep Above each verdant mound. Here they climbed no lofty marble beds To find a frigid rest, But a canopy of golden threads Hangs o’er them in the west. When the larks have ceased their thankful hymn, The ocean booms his bell, And the lamps of heaven swing o’er the rim Of every holy well. May the Lord bring back that race of men Whom charity enticed To desert the world for some poor glen And give the people Christ.
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