I'll praise the saints with early song

I'll praise the saints with early song,

For now the wars are ended;

I'll praise our Lady late and long,

That has my Love defended.

Yes, home is come my Patrick dear,

From me no more to sever;

And in his looks, I see it clear:

He loves me more than ever.

He sits our evening fire beside,

The cabin round surveying,

And looks with all a father's pride,

While near the child is playing.

Even me he turns to gaze upon,

As in my maiden beauty,

Before my bloom was worn and gone

By many a toilsome duty.

And, true - his cheek is sallow now,

That once was bright and ruddy;

A fearful scar is on his brow,

The mark of battle bloody.

And oft in sleep disturb'd he seems,

While o'er him I am bending;

He makes the cross while in his dreams,

As if for life contending.

But happier hours are coming fast,

Sir Phelim - angels bless him -

Says Patrick Toole shall rest at last,

And nothing more distress him.

He grants a farm, with turf-ground near,

He grants a lease for ever;

And heaven will bless, I need not fear,

The honest heart's endeavour.