Remembering Erinn

'Twere delightful, O Son of God,
Forward faring,
Sail to hoist o'er swelling surges,
Home to Erinn!

O'er Moyn-Olarg, past Benevna.
Foyle-ward winging,
Where we'd hear the pleasant music
Swans are singing.

Hosts of sea-gulls would give welcome,
With white pinions,
Did "Red Dewy "I reach, rejoiceful,
Their dominions.

Much I have here — but not Erinn —
Were that gladness!
On this unsung shore of exile, —
Shrouded sadness!

Woeful was mine ordered voyage,
King of Heaven!
Cuil's red combat leaves me lonely
Here, bereaven.

Dima's son is happy yonder,
Down in Durrow;
All his mind desires he heareth,
Night and morrow:

'Mid the elms the swooning breezes
Ever playing,
Joyous note of blackbird's voice, its
Wings displaying,

Lowing of Ros-grena's kine, at
Dewy dawning,
Cuckoo's call at Summer's brink, from
Forest awning.

Of this peopled world I've left three
Dear things only:
Durrow, Derry's grove of Angels,
Lewy, lonely;

I've loved Erinn's cascade-land, not
Rule unrightful, —
Days with Congall, feast with Caindech
Were delightful.