Fancies wild were ours on that day so long ago,
Stirred by Burns's genius, for we had learned to know
The beauty of sweet Erin and something of her woe;
And in song we longed to tell
Of the land we loved so well,
Singing words of hope and cheer, wailing each sad mishap,
Like the daisies on the sod,
With their faces turned to God,
Clung we to the island green that nursed us on her lap.
I said to Lily, fair, my hand among her curls,
If we were Red Branch Knights, or high and noble Earls,
Or poets grand like Burns, instead of simple girls,
We might do some noble deed,
Or touch some tuneful reed,
Something for the land we love to bring her high renown,
The land where we were born;
Is spoken of with scorn,
Her children's songs should praise her, her children's deeds should
crown.
My fair and stately Lily how thy hand sought mine
Clasped it warm and tender with sympathy in thine,
As I wished that we could make our 'streams and burmes shine'
There's many a ruin old,
There's many a castle bold,
There's Sleive mis with his head in mist, here's the silver Maine,
But who of them will sing
Till the whole world shall ring,
With the melody, and ask to hear it once again?
If one of her own children standing boldly forth,
With eyes to see her beauty, a heart to know her worth,
Would fling the charm of song o'er the green robe of the North
Lily said, sweet friend there's one,
And his name is Herbison,
Who sings of Northern Erin in sunlight and in storm,
Of the legend and the tale,
Of the banshees awful wail,
Of Dunluce upon the sea, of the castle of Galgorm
Of the gallant deeds of the all but vanished race,
The high O'Neils who kept with princely state their place
Of their white armed daughters in beauty's woeful race
In that joyful youthful time
All my pulses beat to rhyme,
I thought what you were doing that I would also do,
I would praise the bonnie North,
And draw its legends forth
From cottage and from castle the pleasant country through
I'd make the land I loved in poesy to shine,
The Maine should flow along in "many a tuneful line,"
Songs praising hills and streams full sweetly should be mine,
And the legends I would sing,
From lip to lip should ring,
My native land should ask for, and hear my humble name;
When like her tuneful son,
Green laurels I had won,
I'd think her love for me was better far than fame.
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