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.