Though the Last Glimpse of Erin - The Moorings

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 hunt us no more

I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind

Less rude than the foe 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