Mother Island


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!