November’s wind tonight is raw
And whips the Clyde to foam;
I watch here on the Bromielaw
The harvester’s go home.
Oh! Luck is theirs, and blest are they
Who cross the sea of Moyle;
To see again the dawning grey
The waters of the Foyle.
To-morrow night on starlit ways
They’ll go to a loved door,
And sit with kin by hearths ablaze
In Rosses or Gweedore.
No welcome warm, no lighted pane,
Now waits for me in the West;
And sorrow keener than the rain
Lies heavy on my breast.
Yet longings often draw me where
The boats for Ireland start;
They take an unseen passenger –
My homeless Irish heart.
Like wild geese in their homing flight
These toilers homeward draw,
And leave me lonely in the night
Upon the Bromielaw.