Amidst the rolling hills of green,
Where ancient stones and whispers lie,
The shadows dance, a solemn scene,
Beneath the vast and endless sky.

The echoes of the past remain,
In tales of woe and ancient lore,
Where spirits walk through mist and rain,
To guide the souls forevermore.

The mournful cry of banshee’s wail,
A harbinger of fate’s cruel hand,
In moonlit nights and stormy gale,
They lead the way to promised land.

So rest, dear soul, in earth so deep,
Where rivers flow and clovers bloom,
In Ireland’s heart, forever sleep,
Embraced within her verdant womb.