Sing of Ireland, that
The greens are tossed with bits of yellow and
Perhaps the tossing might make some folks frown,
Although the taste be tangy to the soul.
There is no past for which the bells don't
Regardless how its ways are handed down.
In time its heroes, once of great renown,
Come faded to the fun house of the whole.
Know, then, that the Ireland of old
'Ere long will be what none alive remember,
Save for remnants treasured by a few.
Deep within the heartache that takes hold,
An ancient ecstasy becomes an ember,
Yielding over years to Irelands