Cool-weather Bird of Paradise, spread your
Orange wings of Kilkenny's Celtic dawn over my
Pallid fields of scorched flesh and charred bones.
Phoenix rising to your lips, I am
Eire's promise of the Emerald Eye
Resurrected from the fires of Christian wars.

Al, Christ of Ireland and Dragon of the Stone,
Never turn your back on the Little People.
Green clover bends in the shadow of your steps while
Eagles pluck St. Patrick's bones and
Leprechauns dance rings around your copper-penny hair.