Than–a–mo Dhia! but there it is!
The dawn on the hills of Ireland;
God’s angels lifting the night’s black veil
From the fair sweet face of my sireland.
O Ireland! isn’t it grand you look,
Like a bride in her rich adorning,
And with all the pent-up love of my heart
I bid you the top of the morning.
This one brief hour pays lavishly back
For many a year of mourning,
I’d almost venture another flight,
There’s so much joy in returning;
Watching out for the hallowed shore,
All other attractions scorning,
O Ireland, don’t you hear me shout?―
I bid you the top of the morning.
Ho, ho! upon Cleana’s shelving strand
The surges are grandly beating,
And Kerry is pushing her headlands out
To give us the kindly greeting;
Into the shore the sea-birds fly
On pinions that know no drooping,
And out from the cliffs with welcome charged,
A million of waves come trooping.
O kindly, generous Irish land,
So leal and fair and loving,
No wonder the wandering Celt should think
And dream of you in his roving.
The alien home may have gems and gold,
Shadows may never have gloomed it,
But the heart will sigh for the absent land
Where the love lights first illumed it.
And does not old Cove look charming there,
Watching the wild waves motion;
Leaning her back up against the hills,
And the top of her toes in the ocean.
I wonder I don’t hear Shandon’s bells―
Ah! maybe their chiming’s over,
For it’s many a year since I began
The life of a Western rover.
For thirty summers, asthore, machree,
Those hills I now feast my eyes on,
Ne’er met my visions save when they rose
Over memory’s dim horizon.
E’en so ‘twas grand and fair they seemed,
In the landscape spread before me,
But dreams are dreams, and my eyes would ope
To see Texas sky still o’er me.
And often upon the Texan plains,
When the day and the chase were over,
My thoughts would fly o’er the weary waves,
And around this coast line hover;
And the prayer would rise that some future day,
All danger and doubting scorning,
I might help to win for my native land
The light of young Liberty’s morning.
Now, fuller and truer the shore line shows,
Was ever a scene so splendid?
I feel the breath of a Munster breeze,
Thank God that my exile’s ended!
Old scenes, old songs, old friends again,
The vale and cot I was born in;
O Ireland! up from my heart of hearts
I bid you the top of the morning.