University of Virginia Library


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THE TRAIN THAT GOES TO IRELAND

The train that goes to Ireland: it often passes by.
'Tis comin' like a long, white snake wid smoke upon the sky.
The people do be in it, 'tis little that they know
The sorrow that is on me as I see them go.
The flyin' train for Ireland, it screeches fast and far;
And it might be for Tirnan-oge where gentle people are;
Troth, it might be for heaven where the blessed walk in white,
So bitter is my longin' as it flies out o' sight.
Maybe if I went wid it 'tis little joy I'd find.
The grass is growin' over them that's never from my mind.
There's lonesome, empty places; and people seein' me
Would say: The stranger woman, an' who may she be?
But och, the green of Ireland and the silver, shinin' bay!
The mountains don't be changin' though the people pass away.

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An' still her streams are singin' an' still her larks will rise.
'Tis she that's under golden mist to my achin' eyes.
The people do be in the train they never know their luck.
The half of them is yawnin' or dozin' wid a book:
Them that'll be in Ireland before the night is come,
That'll see the Dublin mountains an' the skies of home!
The people do be in the train: they don't know at all
They take a wee, wild passenger, och, very sad and small!
An' that's the heart that laves me an' goes flyin' fast an' free,
An' travellin' home to Ireland by the dim, grey sea.