And the Holy Land of Ireland，

    And time runs on，‘ cried she.

    ‘Come out of charity，

    Come dance with me in Ireland.‘

    One man， one man alone

    In that outlandish gear，

    One solitary¹ man

    Of all that rambled² there

    Had turned his stately head.

    ‘That is a long way off，

    And time runs on，‘ he said，

    ‘And the night grows rough.’

    ‘I am of Ireland，

    And the Holy Land of Ireland，

    And time runs on，‘ cried she.

    ‘Come out of charity

    And dance with me in Ireland.‘

    ‘The fiddlers are all thumbs，

    Or the fiddle-string accursed，

    The drums and the kettledrums

    And the trumpets⁴ all are burst，

    And the trombone，‘ cried he，

    ‘The trumpet³ and trombone，’

    And cocked a malicious⁵ eye，

    ‘But time runs on， runs on.’

    ‘I am of Ireland，

    And the Holy Land of Ireland，

    And time runs on，‘ cried she.

    ‘Come out of charity

    And dance with me in Ireland.‘