Mananan Mac Lir
  The son of the sea
  Is sib unto me
At the break of the year.

In the white autumn tides
  The ghost drums call
  When the midnights fall,
And the ghost ship rides
  Where the green waves crawl.

I break the loam
  By a Kerry hill—
  They beckon me still
 Through the purple gloam;
Strange eyes in the foam.

The sea-wind chills
  The crumbling stones,
  And a ghost harp moans
In the shadowy hills.
But a white sail fills
  And a sweep-head drones.

The great white oars
  They gleam and bend
And the west wind roars
  From the blue world's end;
  They call me like a friend,
Forgotten shores.