Oh, Ellan Vannin calls to me
Across the intervening sea
With a seductive voice.
Where’er my labour turns my feet,
In quiet lane or busy street,
She calls and calls in accents sweet;
I hear her and rejoice.
For though her form I rarely see
Across the billows distantly,
I know that she is there.
That she is waiting, waiting still
In every glen and stream and hill
Waiting expectantly until
I answer her mute prayer.
Her sons and daughters oft must flee
To other climes, where industry
Their short needs may supply.
But threads of love she weaves to bind
Their hearts to hers, so that they find
They never leave her quite behind—
For that would be to die!