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As mists of the evening creep over the hill And the sea round about her is silent and still Forbidden dark island so dreary and cold What mysterious tales can your black rocks unfold
While fishermen row past your dark ocean shore
The old men will tell not a bird or a nest
Tis sacred you stand to folks long ago
But tho' they've not seen they'll tell what they know
So toast to yon mountains and summits of blue |