'I am of Ireland, <br />And the Holy Land of Ireland, <br />And time runs on,' cried she. <br />'Come out of charity, <br />Come dance with me in Ireland.' <br /> <br />One man, one man alone <br />In that outlandish gear, <br />One solitary man <br />Of all that rambled there <br />Had turned his stately head. <br />That is a long way off, <br />And time runs on,' he said, <br />'And the night grows rough.' <br /> <br />'I am of Ireland, <br />And the Holy Land of Ireland, <br />And time runs on,' cried she. <br />'Come out of charity <br />And dance with me in Ireland.' <br /> <br />'The fiddlers are all thumbs, <br />Or the fiddle-string accursed, <br />The drums and the kettledrums <br />And the trumpets all are burst, <br />And the trombone,' cried he, <br />'The trumpet and trombone,' <br />And cocked a malicious eye, <br />'But time runs on, runs on.' <br /> <br />I am of Ireland, <br />And the Holy Land of Ireland, <br />And time runs on,' cried she. <br />"Come out of charity <br />And dance with me in Ireland.'<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-am-of-ireland/
