Shiela ni Gara, it is lonesome where you bide,
With the plover circling over and the sagans spreading wide,
With an empty sea before you, and behind a wailing world,
Where the sword lieth rusty and the Banner Blue is furled.

Is it a sail ye wait, Shiela? " Yea, from the westering sun. "
Shall it bring joy or sorrow? " Oh, joy sadly won. "
Shall it bring peace or conflict? " The pibroch in the glen,
And the flash and crash of battle where my banner shines again. "

Green spears of Hope rise round you like grass-blades after drouth,
And there blows a red wind from the East, a white wind from the South,
A brown wind from the West, a gradh , a brown wind from the West —
But the black, black wind from Northern hills, how can you love it best?

Said Shiela ni Gara, " 'Tis a kind wind and a true,
For it rustled soft through Aileach's halls and stirred the hair of Hugh;
Then blow, wind! and snow, wind! What matters storm to me,
Now I know the fairy sleep must break and let the sleepers free. "

But, Shiela ni Gara, why rouse the stony dead,
Since at your call a living host will circle you instead?
Long is our hunger for your voice, the hour is drawing near —
Oh, Dark Rose of our Passion — call, and our hearts shall hear!