Curl’d he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,
Uileacán dubh O!
Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea,
Uileacán dubh O!
And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,
For the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Sir Samuel Ferguson.
DAVIS
CLXXVII
MY LAND
She is a rich and rare land;
O! she’s a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land—
This native land of mine.
No men than hers are braver—
Her women’s hearts ne’er waver;
I’d freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.
She’s not a dull or cold land;
No! she’s a warm and bold land;
O! she’s a true and old land—
This native land of mine.
Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border—
No friend within it pine!