Dear Erin, how sweetly the green bosom rises!
An emerald set in the ring of the sea!
Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart prizes,
Thou queen of the west! Cuisle mo chroidhe.

The gates open wide to the poor and the stranger,
There smiles hospitality, hearty and free;
Thy friendship is seen in the moment of danger,
And the wand’rer is welcomed with Cuisle mo chroidhe.

Thy sons they are brave; but, the battle once over,
In brotherly peace with their foes they agree;
And the roseate cheeks of thy daughters discover
The soul-speaking blush that says Cuisle mo chroidhe.

Then flourish for ever, my dear native Erin!
While sadly I wander an exile from thee,
And, firm as thy mountains, no injury fearing,
May heaven defend its own Cuisle mo chroidhe.

Cuisle mo chroidhe = vein of my heart

John Philpot Curran (1750 Cork – 1817 London)