The sea-faring people of Inis Mór,
Battered by rain and wind and hail,
Did not seek shelter on ship or on sand,
But faced the elements, hard as nails.
No lighthouse did guide their way,
The stars obscured by weeping heavens,
No one, but the people on shore,
God, and prayers, led them home.
Now the currachs have run dry
From thirst, for the people have gone,
The stories told by the hearth,
Known then to some now remembered by none,
I await for their return,
Till then, may the sea carry their names,
And always bring them back to shore.
