Poem for November 11, 2027

Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,

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.

And 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.