Out of the mist off Galway shore,
Out of the morning mist,
Rose the island of Hy Brasail
With its crags of amethyst;
Crags of purple and amethyst,
And meads of gleaming green,
Rose the island of Hy Brasail
With a shimmer of sea between.
And what shall come to Galway shore,
What shadow of doom prevail,
With this fading dream of the mists of morn,
This island of Hy Brasail?