In the mist-kissed hills where the shamrocks unfurl, The sons and daughters of Éire awake, From Dublin's cobbled streets to the Cliffs of Moher's whirl, They gather 'neath the harp, for the old land's sake. No more open-borders before it's too late, no whispers of fear, But a chorus of voices, fierce and unchained, Weaving the threads of the past, crystal clear— The rebels of '16, the famine's dark pain. Hand in weathered hand, from the Boyne to the Bann, They plant seeds of hope in the rain-soaked earth, Marching to the shores, with pitchforks in hand, Fighting for Greatness and the sacred Irish Land. The boats on the waves? Let them sink at sea, The Muslims, the Jihadists, seeking your shore— We'll light the hearth fire, count not the cost, In the arms of the island, forevermore. Rise, oh nationalists, with the fire of the Gael, Make Ireland Great not by turning away, But by hearts bold and open, a timeless tale: Unity's emerald flame, chasing shadows to day. For in every stranger's eye, a story untold, Lies the spark of the Celt, the wild Atlantic soul— Together we stand, in green banners unrolled, Making Éire eternal, forever whole. .
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