Weary on ye, sad waves!
Still scourging the lonely shore.
Oh, I am far from my father's door,
And my kindred's graves!

From day to day, outside
There is nothing but dreary sea;
And at night o'er the dreams of me
The great waters glide.

If I look to east or west,
Green billows go tipped with foam–
Green woods gird my father's home,
With birds in each nest.

The grass is bitter with brine,
Sea-stunted the rushes stir–
In my father's woods the fir
Smells sweeter than wine.

My mother's eyes were kind,
But oh! kind eyes and smile
That won me to this lone isle,
She is left behind.

For love came like a storm,
Uprooted, and bound me here
In chains more strong, more dear,
Than the old home charm.

: : : : :

Swiftly I thrust away
This thought of the Woods of Truagh,
My poplar, my fir are you,
My larch a-sway–

My mether of full delight,
My sun that is never spent,
And thus I go well-content,
Through gray days in your light.