I have never been to Ireland, though I’ve heard its bonny song;

Folks who look like me and Grams; the place that I belong.

Red ringlets, tangled, twisting, as the breeze jaunts jolly by.

Small and simple gardens, wind-rippled, rose-wreathed and blithe.

Cobbled streets, and meadows, and seas of glistened blue.

Doors of every tinge, and taverns—just a few.

And folks who look like me and Grams, that she remembers too.