Inishowen by Charles Gavan Duffy

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God bless the gray mountains of dark Donegal,
God bless the Royal Aileach, the pride of them all;
For she sits evermore like a Queen on her throne,
And smiles on the valleys of Green Inishowen.
And fair are the valleys of Green Inishowen
And hardly the fishers that call them their own –
A race that nor traitor nor coward have known
Enjoy the fair valleys of Green Inishowen.

O! 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,
Breathed his spirit abroad upon fair Inishowen.
Then praise to our Father for wild Inishowen,
Where fiercely forever the surges are thrown –
Now weather nor fortune a tempest hath blown
Could shake the strong bosoms of brave Inishowen.

See the bountiful Couldah careering along –
A type of their manhood so stately and strong –
On the weary forever its tide is bestown,
So they share with the stranger in fair Inishowen.
God guard the kind homesteads of fair Inishowen,
Which manhood and virtue have chosen for their own;
Not long shall that nation in slavery grown,
That reads the tall peasants of fair Inishowen.

Lie that oak of St. Bride which nor Devil nor Dane
Nor Saxon nor Dutchman could rend from her fane,
They have clung by the cred and the cause of their own
That rears the tall peasants of fair Inishowen.
Then shout for the glories of old Inishowen,
The stronghold that foemen have never o’erthrown –
The soul and the spirit, the blood and the bone,
That guard the green valleys of true Inishowen.

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 Inishowen.
O! flourish, ye homesteads of kind Inishowen,
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 Inishowen.

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,
Through the midnight of danger in true Inishowen.
Hurrah for the Spaemen of proud Inishowen!
Long live the wild Seers of proud Inishowen!
May Mary, our mother be deaf to their moan
Who love not the promise of proud Inishowen.

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