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| TAKE a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth, | |
| And the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
| And to all that yet survive of Eibhear’s tribe on earth, | |
| On the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
| In that land so delightful the wild thrush’s lay, | 5 |
| Seems to pour a lament forth for Eiré’s decay. | |
| Alas, alas! why pine I a thousand miles away | |
| From the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
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| The soil is rich and soft, the air is mild and bland, | |
| Of the fair hills of Eiré, O! | 10 |
| Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land; | |
| O the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
| Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove; | |
| Trees flourish in her glens below and on her heights above; | |
| Ah, in heart and in soul I shall ever, ever love | 15 |
| The fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
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| A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael, | |
| On the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
| A tribe in battle’s hour unused to shrink or fail | |
| On the fair hills of Eiré, O! | 20 |
| For this is my lament in bitterness outpour’d | |
| To see them slain or scatter’d by the Saxon sword: | |
| O woe of woes to see a foreign spoiler horde | |
| On the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
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| Broad and tall rise the cruachs in the golden morning glow | 25 |
| On the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
| O’er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow, | |
| On the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
| Oh, I long, I am pining, again to behold | |
| The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old. | 30 |
| Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold | |
| Are the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
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| The dewdrops lie bright mid the grass and yellow corn | |
| On the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
| The sweet-scented apples blush redly in the morn | 35 |
| On the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
| The water-cress and sorrel fill the vales below, | |
| The streamlets are hush’d till the evening breezes blow, | |
| While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow | |
| Neath the fair hills of Eiré, O! | 40 |
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| A fruitful clime is Eiré’s, through valley, meadow, plain, | |
| And the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
| The very bread of life is in the yellow grain | |
| On the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
| Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields | 45 |
| Is the lowing of the kine and the calves in her fields, | |
| In the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields | |
| Of the Gaels, on the fair hills of Eiré, O! | |
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