“When the wicked rise, men hide themselves: but when they perish, the righteous increase.” Prov. 28:28
Strong idle forces of the winds of tempest, fallen the winds of Wrong,
They blow from the oceans nare the hearths’ glow, but are black as Sackloth.
They churn, bubble forth, to unveil the land, T’yeer-Na-n-oge’s plains.—
The land whose inhabitants are naught dead nor alive, yet are they.
The land of the Fairy-lORD, the place of imagination’s vice.—
The foaming oceans blaze the white cream-sop, the Pookahs run the beach.
Oh, the Fairyland of T’yeer-Na-n-oge, they run to and fro
Unaware of the blooming heather’s purple, crimson orange peep,
Where the blue hues of the clouds above glow fiery, furnace red
On the sunset day, whence the ocean foams, to T’yeer-Na-n-oge.
The lovely maidens hide in their houses, from that T’yeer-Na-n-oge;
The old women are hid in the stone towers, of T’yeer-Na-n-oge.
For neither death nor life are granted here, in that T’yeer-Na-n-oge.
Where are you, O’Donahue? White rider with the serpent crushed forth?
You who had been to T’yeer-Na-n-oge, rise from sky-foam, ocean wave.