Leal heart, and brave right hand that never drew
One false note from thy harp, although the ache
Of weariness and hope deferred might shake
Harsh discords from a soul less clear and true
Than thine amid the gloom that knew no break—
The London gloom that barred the heaven's blue
From thy deep Celtic eyes, so wide to take
The bliss of earth and sky within their view!
On fleet, white wings thy music made its way
Back o'er the waves to Ireland's holy shore;
Close nestled in her bosom, each wild lay
Mixed with her sighs—'twas from her deep heart's core
She called thee: "'Gille Machree'[7] come home, I pray—
In my green lap of shamrocks sleep, asthore!"
Rose Kavanagh, in Irish Monthly.