Emigration

Now as the lees of stray stars Ebb from those salt grey sands, Shy beauties shawled on sidecars, Gallop from stony townlands— Passing those lonely thresholds, Lit by a wave of hands: Leaving the quiet to murmur The rumours of rich lands.

For them the sails are well spread Towards far wastes of stone, Where joy is choked by small bread And worn is each fair bone Once curved to a neat delight, On roads where the dance is known; But the light steps are muffled, Now the wild limbs have flown.

And yet you strive to leave here; Come, love, take my hand,

We'll thrive where still the red deer Runs on the green highland,

Taking our space of sunlight, Until in the dark below,

Under the growth of moonlight Bright isles of water grow.