I know a purple moorland where a blue loch lies,
Where the lonely plover circles, and the peewit cries,
Oh! do you yet remember that dear day in September,
The hills and shadowy waters beneath those tender skies?

Behind the scythes, swift-flashing, a wealth of gold corn lay,
In every brake a singing voice had some sweet word to say,
When we took the track together across a world of heather,
With Joy before us like a star to point the pleasant way.

* * * * *

In Kerry of the Kings you hear the cuckoo call,
You watch the gorse grow withered and its yellow glory fall:
Yet may some dream blow o'er you the welcome that's before you,
Among the wind-swept heather and gray glens of Donegal.