AN IRISH SONG
Over me lifts the peat-reek
That parts and drifts and veers,
And the wind's uneasy moaning
Is loud about mine ears.
The waves upon the shingle
They murmur drearily,
And the streamers of the fog-wraith
Drive in from the open sea.
The mist hangs over the passes,
The mist hangs over the moors,
And the eerie cry of the curlew
It quavers and endures.
And it all is lonely, lonely,
And there 's sorrow on every face,
But the heart of me needs must love it,
For the land is mine own place!
TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES OF THIS BOOK PRINTED ON VAN GELDER
HAND-MADE PAPER AND THE TYPE DISTRIBUTED IN THE MONTH OF MARCH MDCCCCXIV
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| Transcriber's notes: |
| |
| The original book printed contractions (as opposed to |
| elisions) with a spaced apostrophe: this has been retained. |
| |
| Minor typographical corrections are documented in the source |
| of the associated html version. |
| |
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