Tir na Nog, land of my youth
withers now like bone from truth.
Hearth and home are cold as stone,
forsaken rivers dry as bone.
No longer will the lofty spires
be full of laughter, song, and fires
as emerald streets now choke with dust,
the blacksmith's hammer breaks from rust
and in a pub not far from town
a lonely warden's sorrows drown.
She sinks her shoulders to the fog
and kills the crush of thought with grog.