The green grass is growing abune their graves;
Yet the sun through the mirk seems to promise to me—
I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame, hame, fain wad I be;
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!
Allan Cunningham
DARK ROSALEEN
O my dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep!