Over the hills of heather
Wakens the windy morn,
In the island of Inisfalen
Where my fathers were bred and born.
Round me, grey in the glooming,
The though of the troublous seas,
Spangled with spray far flying,
Lashed white by a boisterous breeze.

And oh! But it's long I've left it,
Following fame and strife, –
For great it grew in my bosom,
The pride and the love of life, –
Since I went from the misty meadows
High up on the hill that lie,
Gladly to greet all dangers,
Gladly to dare and die.

Perchance, in the land I long for,
Round the rooms that I loved of old,
The winds are wailing in sorrow
In the halls of my forebears bold.
And it's oh for the scent of the seaweed,
In the land that I loved of yore,
In the island of Inisfalen,
Grey billow and shingled shore.