Time passes so gently in this country, moist
Change as slow as the cliff yielding to the sea -
Hear the trumpet from the past, silver voiced,
Its clear mark differently on you and me,
Shrewd, still close to the flock, bishop urbane -
And bittersweet sounds of the Kerry Dance,
Of hope and laughter no matter what pain
The Irish, with Jesus and Mary, caught in Romance.
When, Eamonn, you return to Inch's fair strand
And the sun explodes like thunder in the reeks,
Watch through the gray mists the sun arising;
Their weary footprints softly tracing sand
The three tired pilgrims whom all Ireland seeks -
Great Podraig, magic Biddy, and Cormac the King.
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