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Dear Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises,
An emerald set in the ring of the sea,
Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart prizes,
Thou Queen of the West, the world’s cushla-ma-chree.
Thy gates open wide to the poor and the stranger,
There smiles hospitality, hearty and free;
Thy friendship is seen in the moment of danger,
And the wanderer is welcomed with cushla-ma-chree.
Thy sons they are brave, but, the battle once over,
In brotherly peace with their foes they agree,
And the roseate cheeks of thy daughters discover
The soul-speaking flush that says cushla-ma-chree.
Then flourish forever, my dear native Erin,
While sadly I wander an exile from thee,
And firm as thy mountains, no injury fearing,
May Heaven defend its’ own cushla-ma-chree