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| THERE is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra, | |
| Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow; | |
| In deep-valleyed Desmond a thousand wild fountains | |
| Come down to that lake from their home in the mountains. | |
| There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow | 5 |
| Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow; | |
| As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning, | |
| It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. | |
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| And its zone of dark hills,—O, to see them all brightening, | |
| When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning, | 10 |
| And the waters rush down, mid the thunder’s deep rattle, | |
| Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle; | |
| And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, | |
| And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming! | |
| O, where is the dwelling, in valley or highland, | 15 |
| So meet for a bard as this lone little island? | |
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| How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara, | |
| And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera, | |
| Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean, | |
| And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel’s devotion, | 20 |
| And thought of thy bards, when assembling together, | |
| In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather; | |
| They fled from the Saxon’s dark bondage and slaughter, | |
| And waked their last song by the rush of thy water. | |
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| High sons of the lyre, O, how proud was the feeling, | 25 |
| To think while alone through that solitude stealing, | |
| Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, | |
| I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber, | |
| And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains | |
| The songs even Echo forgot on her mountains; | 30 |
| And gleaned each gray legend that darkly was sleeping | |
| Where the mist and the rain o’er their beauty were creeping! | |
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