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| HOW sweet from proud Ben-Edir’s height, | |
| To see the ocean roll in light; | |
| And fleets swift-bounding in the gale, | |
| With warriors clothed in shining mail! | |
| |
| Fair hill, on thee great Finn of old | 5 |
| Was wont his counsels sage to hold; | |
| On thee rich bowls the Fenians crowned, | |
| And passed the foaming beverage round. | |
| |
| ’T was thine within a sea-washed cave | |
| To hide and shelter Duivne brave, | 10 |
| When, snared by Grace’s charms divine, | |
| He bore her o’er the raging brine. | |
| |
| Fair hill, thy slopes are ever seen | |
| Bedecked with flowers or robed in green; | |
| Thy nut-groves rustle o’er the deep, | 15 |
| And forests crown thy cliff-girt steep. | |
| |
| High from thy russet peaks ’t is sweet | |
| To see the embattled war-ships meet; | |
| To hear the crash, the shout, the roar | |
| Of cannon, through the caverned shore. | 20 |
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| Most beauteous hill, around whose head | |
| Ten thousand sea-birds’ pinions spread, | |
| May joy thy lord’s true bosom thrill, | |
| Chief of the Fenians’ happy hill! | |
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