Its storm for us shall howl no more,
Our time on gloomy Moyle is ended.
Three hundred sunless summers past,
We leave at length this loveless billow;
Where oft we felt the icy blast,
And made the shelving crag our pillow.
Still on our lingering night of pain,
Far distant beams the dawn of gladness;
Light ease beside the western main
Awaits our long accustomed sadness.