  Out of the mist off Galway shore, Out of the morning mist, Rose the island of Hy Brasail With its crags of amethyst; Crags of purple and amethyst, And meads of gleaming green, Rose the island of Hy Brasail With a shimmer of sea between. And what shall come to Galway shore, What shadow of doom prevail, With this fading dream of the mists of morn, This island of Hy Brasail? |
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