My son is in America Away beyond the sea, But in his dreams he comes back home, And looks out towards Knockree. He sees the ribbon of white road Go winding towards Glenchree, And he knocks with his stick on the open door To call herself and me. All day he's working in the town, And moidhered with the street, But in his dreams he feels the grass-- The grass beneath his feet. He wanders up the green hill-side, The elder bloom smells sweet, Then he praises God for the Irish air And reek of burning peat. The wonders of the West he sees, For men of wealth live there In houses reaching to the stars, With everything that's fair. "But och!" says he, "the hills for me, The sight of grouse or hare, The cry of the curlews over the bog, The breath of Irish air." |