From Belfast

Somewhere far from home,

my soul began to sing

the golden thorn and green-isle song,

somewhere along the train from Belfast.

For amoungst the dandelion and the clover

I feel home in a stranger’s land.

But all the while the song’s not over,

as my feet press the earth near Belfast.

The shamrock and thistle make a wee pass,

though I have not fallen yet.

For the tide is turning, and ‘twill not last,

o’er the seasons and the suns of Belfast

Strength of cliffs and salt of youth,

the shore reflects mine eyes,

open to the storm and fight of truth,

along the winding road to Belfast.

These feet will dance as bees of honeycomb,

and bless the flowers with a kiss.

But return they must to the blossoms of home

to the beginning of the end, before Belfast.

So my dear, I must unwind our hands,

for this heart still beats with the river.

Tis not yet ready to drop anchor and land,

and so it sails on the ship from Belfast.