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INIS-EOGHAIN [OR, INISHOWEN], by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: God bless the grey mountains of dun-na-n-gall
Last Line: Who love not the promise of proud inis-eoghain!
Subject(s): Donegal, Ireland


GOD bless the grey mountains of Dun-na-n-gall!
God bless royal Aileach! the pride of them all;
For she sits, evermore, like a queen on her throne,
And smiles on the valleys of green Inis-Eoghain.
And fair are the valleys of green Inis-Eoghain,
And hardy the fishers that call them their own --
A race that nor traitor nor coward has known
Enjoys the fair valleys of green Inis-Eoghain.

Oh! simple and bold are the bosoms they bear,
Like the hills that with silence and nature they share;
For our God, who hath planted their home near his own,
Breath'd His Spirit abroad upon fair Inis-Eoghain.
Then praise to our Father for wild Inis-Eoghain,
Where fiercely for ever the surges are thrown;
Nor weather nor fortune a tempest hath blown
Could shake the strong bosoms of brave Inis-Eoghain.

See the beautiful Cul-daim careering along,
A type of their manhood so stately and strong --
On the weary for ever its tide is bestown,
So they share with the stranger in fair Inis-Eoghain.
God guard the kind homesteads of fair Inis-Eoghain,
Which manhood and virtue have chosen for their own;
Not long shall the nation in slavery groan
That rears the tall peasants of fair Inis-Eoghain.

Like the oak of St. Bride, which nor devil nor Dane,
Nor Saxon nor Dutchman, could rend from her fane,
They have clung by the creed and the cause of their own,
Through the midnight of danger, in true Inis-Eoghain.
Then shout for the glories of old Inis-Eoghain,
The stronghold that foeman has never o'erthrown --
The soul and the spirit, the blood and the bone
That guard the green valleys of true Inis-Eoghain.

Nor purer of old was the tongue of the Gael
When the charging 'aboo' made the foreigner quail,
Than it gladdens the stranger in welcome's soft tone
In the home-loving cabins of kind Inis-Eoghain.
Oh! flourish, ye homesteads of kind Inis-Eoghain,
Where seeds of a people's redemption are sown;
Right soon shall the fruit of that sowing have grown,
To bless the kind homesteads of Green Inis-Eoghain.

When they tell us the tale of a spell-stricken band,
All entranced, with their bridles and broadswords in hand,
Who await but the word to give Erin her own,
They can read you that riddle in proud Inis-Eoghain!
Hurrah for the spaemen of proud Inis-Eoghain!
Long live the wild seers of stout Inis-Eoghain;
May Mary, our mother, be deaf to their moan
Who love not the promise of proud Inis-Eoghain!





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