‘There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra,
Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow,
In deep-valley’d Desmond – a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake from their homes in the mountains.
There grows the wild ash, and a time stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow;
As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.
And its zone of dark hills – oh! to see them all bright’ning,
When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning;
And the waters rush down, ‘mid the thunder’s deep rattle,
like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle.
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,
And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming,
Oh! where is the dwelling in valley, or highland,
So sweet for a bard as this lone little island.’