The Hills of Connemara

The night-mist thickens o'er the town,
The twilight's paling dimmer,
A-through the chill, hum-laden air
The gaslights faintly glimmer.
In exile here I sit and think,
My heart surcharged with sorrow,
Of home, and friends that watch for me
On the hills of Connemara —
Those glorious hills ! those kindly hills !
The hills of Connemara.

The night-mist thickens o'er the town,
But heavier mists are falling
On the Irish breast, bereft of love,
For peace and rest long calling.
Alone ! alone ! where millions throng,
As if my brain to harrow
With golden dreams of thundering streams
On the hills of Connemara —
The loving hills, the wild-eyed hills,
The hills of Connemara.

On Corrib's cheeks the moonlight sleeps,
The currach skims full lightly ;
O'er Clifden's slopes our mountain girls
Now wander singing blithely ;
And I must bear this strife and din,
While memory strives to borrow
One look of love, one sparkling glance
Of the hills of Connemara.
O soft- faced hills ! O brown-tipped hills —
Brave hills of Connemara !

God's dearest blessing dwell with them ;
God bless the race they foster,
If Ireland's sons were all as true,
We never would have lost her.
God prosper all my burning hopes,
The hopes to crown to-morrow,
When the streams will sing my welcome back
To the hills of Connemara —
My native hills, my childhood's hills,
The hills of Connemara !