A Green Island

There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra,
Where allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow:
In deep valleyed Desmond a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake from their home in the mountains.
There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow:
As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning

And its zone of dark hills-O! to see them all bright'ning,
When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning,
And the waters rush down,'mid the thunder's deep rattle
Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle:
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,
And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming.
O! where is the dwelling in valley or highland,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island?

How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara,
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,
Have I sought, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean,
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion,
And thought of thy bards, when assembling together,
In the clefts of thy rocks or the depth of thy heather:
They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,
And waked their last song by the rush of thy water.

High sons of the lyre,O! how proud was the feeling,
To think while alone through that solitude stealing,
Though loftier Minstrels green Erin can number,
I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,
And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains
The songs even Echo forgot on her mountains:
And gleaned each grey legend, that darkly was sleeping
Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty were creeping.

Least bard of the hills! were it mind to inherit
the fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit,
With the wrongs which like thee to our country have bound me,
Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me,
Still, still in these wilds might young liberty rally,
And send her strong shout over mountain and valley,
The star of the west might yet rise in its glory,
And the land that was darkest be brighest in story.

I too shall be gone :-but my name shall be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken:
Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming,
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avonbwee seeks the kisses of ocean,
Or plant a wild wreath from the banks of that river
O'er the heart and the harp that are sleeping forever.