Inishowen

God bless the grey mountains of dark Donegal !
God bless royal Alleach, the pride of them all !
For she sits evermore like a queen on her throne,
And smiles on the valleys of green Inishowen.
And fair are the valleys of green Inishowen,
And hardy the fishers that call them their own—
A race that no traitor nor coward has known
Enjoys the fair valleys of green Inishowen.

O simple and bold are the bosoms they bear,
Like the hills that with silence and nature they share ;
For our God, who hath planted their home near His own,
Breathed His spirit abroad upon fair Inishowen.
Then praise to our Father for wild Inishowen,
Where fiercely for ever the surges are thrown —
Nor weather nor fortune a tempest hath blown
Could shake the strong bosoms of brave Inishowen.

See the bountiful Culdaff careering along —
A type of their manhood so stately and strong —
On the weary for ever its tide is bestown,
So they share with the stranger in fair Inishowen.
God guard the kind homesteads of fair Inishowen,
Which manhood and virtue have chosen their own ;
Not long shall the nation in slavery groan
That rears the tall peasants of fair Inishowen.

Like the oak of St Bride, which nor devil, nor Dane,
Nor Saxon, nor Dutchman, could rend from her fane,
They have clung by the creed and the cause of their own,
Through the midnight of danger in true Inishowen.
Then shout for the glories of old Inishowen,
The stronghold that foeman has ne'er overthrown—
The soul and the spirit, the blood and the bone,
That guard the green valleys of true Inishowen.

Nor purer of old was the tongue of the Gael,
When the charging abu made the foreigner quail,
Than it gladdens the stranger in welcome's soft tone,
In the home-loving cabins of kind Inishowen.
O flourish, ye homesteads of kind Inishowen,
Where seeds of a people's redemption are sown ;
Right soon shall the fruit of that sowing have grown
To bless the kind homesteads of green Inishowen.

When they tell us the tale of a spell-stricken band,
All entranced, with their bridles and broadswords in hand,
Who await but the word to give Erin her own,
They can read you that riddle in proud Inishowen !
Hurra for the spaemen of proud Inishowen ;
Long live the wild seers of stout Inishowen !
May Mary, our mother, be deaf to their moan
Who love not the promise of proud Inishowen !