Clover and moss adornment,
fields of ancient emerald mellow,
with spring lambs innocent,
elderly farmer with a tea stained
smile.

Yet, north of there,
her people warring,
life spills on concrete,
and in the singing wind
is the song of the Troubles.

My maiden, my Eire,
are you ever at rest?
Where are your children?
Sons and daughters,
youth no more to come home,
Scars on a beauty,
she, she, will it go on into eternity?

My beauty, the souls and
shamrocks in the dew,
weep just as much as you.