When I was a young man I sailed the sea
With the salt in my hair and the nets to the lee,
And one day my moira vouchsafed me to see
The island of Huy Braseal
Arising above waves of emerald and blue
Were gleaming white towers from which proudly flew
Bright pennants of every conceivable hue
The banners of Huy Braseal
The devices of heroes of Erin of old,
Of Fionn and Oisin and Cuchullain the bold
And Brian Boru's three lions of gold
In the breezes of Huy Braseal
The folk, like the cities, were wonderous fair:
No hunger nor sorrow was ever seen there,
And I could do naught but openmouthed stare
At the beauty of Huy Braseal
There were druids and scholars whose wisdom was great;
And poets and bards, ancient lore to relate;
And the men and the women stood tall, proud and straight
The people of Huy Braseal
In a day you could sail the island around
Though no limits, on foot, to the land could be found
In an instant my heart was utterly bound
To the island of Huy Braseal
There were great sweeping fields of golden grain growing,
And huge herds of cattle, all placidly lowing
And, through misty forests and hidden glades flowing,
The waters of Huy Braseal
There were beaches of sand gleaming silvery-white,
And mountains that rose to incredible heights:
The very air glowed with a glittering light
O'er the island of Huy Braseal
For an instant I turned to cry "Come and share
The wondrous sight of this island so fair!"
But when I turned back, no island was there;
No island of Huy Braseal.
Then the ship became sluggish that had been so swift
For the nets grew so heavy we hardly could lift
Our catch, a great bounty, a last parting gift
From the waters of Huy Braseal
Now I am old, and the days slowly pass,
And many's the memory slips through my grasp,
But there's one that I know will shine bright to the last:
The memory of Huy Braseal
The White Christ is the future, or so I am told,
But their churches seem sterile and cheerless and cold:
No, I've seen what's for me, and I'll stubbornly hold
To the promise of Huy Braseal