We present this work in honor of the poet’s 220th birthday.

Long they pine in weary woe — the nobles of our land —
Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas! and banned;
Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exie’s brand,
But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

Think not her a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen;
Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen;
Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned a qeeen,
Were the king’s son at home here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

Sweet and mild would look her face — Oh! none so sweet and mild —
Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled;
Woolen plaids would grace herself and robes of silk her child,
If the king’s son were living here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of thrones
Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and hapless bones!
Bitter anguish wrings our souls — with heavy sighs and groans
We wait the Young Deliverer of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

Let us pray to Him who holds life’s issues in His hands,
Him who formed the mighty globe, with all his thousand lands;
Girding them with sea and mountains, rivers deep, and strands,
To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

He, who over sands and waves led Israel along —
He who fed, with heavenly bread, that chosen tribe and throng;
He who stood by Moses when his foes were fierce and strong,
May He show forth His might in saving Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.