Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, <br />Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me; <br />In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, <br />And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam. <br /> <br />To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, <br />Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, <br />I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind <br />Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. <br /> <br />And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes, <br />And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes; <br />Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear <br />One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.<br /><br />Thomas Moore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/though-the-last-glimpse-of-erin-with-sorrow-i-se/
