Hy-Brasail.
Near where Horn its dark head
Rears o’er the deep ocean,
And the sea-birds whirl round
In a constant commotion,
Where loving Atlantic
Outstretches its arms,
Four islands romantic
Lie, lost in their charms.
The farthest is Tory,
Rough, rocky and stern,
Inishbeg, Inishbofin,
Inishdoe, as you turn
Your rapt gaze to the west,
Orange, rose-red, or grey,
Stretch, three islands at rest
In the calm of the bay.
And beyond them, most blest
Of a realm without guile,
In the sunshine and rest
Lies Hy-Brasail, the isle
Of the angels and saints,
So lovely and dim,
Where the sea’s white foam breaks
On its far distant rim.
The peasant who heard of
This wonderful isle
Set sail to the west
With a confident smile.
The dream of Hy-Brasail
Within his heart burned,
He was lost in the sea
And never returned.
Londonderry, September 10, 1913.
Bálor of the Great Blows.
Have ye read of the past in folios at Dublin
Of Firwolgs, and of Pechts, and of red-headed Danes,
And Fomors from Tory, who people went troublin’,
Stealing woman and child, binding Irish in chains?