| |
| OH, the fern, the fern, the Irish hill fern, | |
| That girds our blue lakes from Lough Ine to Lough Erne, | |
| That waves on our crags like the plume of a king, | |
| And bends like a nun over clear well and spring. | |
| The fairies’ tall palm-tree, the heath-bird’s fresh nest, | 5 |
| And the couch the red-deer deems the sweetest and best; | |
| With the free winds to fan it, and dew-drops to gem, | |
| Oh, what can ye match with its beautiful stem? | |
| From the shrine of St. Finbar, by lone Avonbwee, | |
| To the halls of Dunluce, with its towers by the sea, | 10 |
| From the hill of Knockthu to the rath of Moyvore, | |
| Like a chaplet that circles our green island o’er, | |
| In the bawn of the chief, by the anchorite’s cell, | |
| On the hill-top or greenwood, by streamlet or well, | |
| With a spell on each leaf which no mortal can learn, | 15 |
| Oh, there never was plant like the Irish hill fern! | |
| |
| Oh, the fern, the fern, the Irish hill fern, | |
| That shelters the weary, or wild roe, or kern; | |
| Through the glens of Kilcoe rose a shout on the gale, | |
| As the Saxons rushed forth in their wrath from the Pale, | 20 |
| With bandog and blood-hound, all savage to see, | |
| To hunt through Cluncalla the wild rapparee. | |
| Hark! a cry from yon dell on the startled ear rings, | |
| And forth from the wood the young fugitive springs, | |
| Through the copse, o’er the bog, and oh, saints be his guide! | 25 |
| His fleet step now falters, there ’s blood on his side; | |
| Yet onward he strains, climbs the cliff, fords the stream, | |
| And sinks on the hill-top, ’mid bracken leaves green; | |
| And thick o’er his brow are the fresh clusters piled, | |
| And they cover his form as a mother her child, | 30 |
| And the Saxon is baffled. They never discern | |
| Where it shelters and saves him, the Irish hill fern. | |
| |
| Oh, the fern, the fern, the Irish hill fern, | |
| That pours a wild keen o’er the hero’s gray cairn, | |
| Go hear it at midnight, when stars are all out, | 35 |
| And the wind o’er the hill-side is moaning about, | |
| With a rustle and stir, and a low wailing tone | |
| That thrills through the heart with its whispering lone; | |
| And ponder its meaning, when haply you stray | |
| Where the halls of the stranger in ruin decay; | 40 |
| With night-owls for warders, the goshawk for guest, | |
| And their dais of honor by cattle-hoof pressed, | |
| With its foss choked with rushes, and spider webs flung, | |
| Over walls where the marchmen their red weapons hung, | |
| With a curse on their name, and a sigh for the hour | 45 |
| That tarries so long. Look what waves on the tower | |
| With an omen and sign, and an augury stern, | |
| ’T is the green flag of Time, ’t is the Irish hill fern. | |
| |
