  Where glows the Irish hearth with peat There lives a subtle spell— The faint blue smoke, the gentle heat The moorland odours tell Of white roads winding by the edge Of bare untamÈd land, Where dry stone wall or ragged hedge Runs wide on either hand To cottage lights that lure you in From rainy Western skies; And by the friendly glow within Of simple talk, and wise, And tales of magic, love or arms From days when princes met To listen to the lay that charms 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. 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. |
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