A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.

How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.

The hour of the waning of love has beset us,And weary and worn are our sad souls now;Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.

Out of Ireland have we come.Great hatred, little room,Maimed us at the start.