MARCH.
When winds of March come roaring up the glen, I close my eyes and visit home again, An Irish home with hearth of smoking peat, A common home that song and love made sweet. I see the chapel with its cool stone floor, The wind-blown lads and lasses at the door. Oh, never are my dreams so dear as when The winds of March come roaring up the glen !-
I love the month of rousing, gladsome cheer, — The month in which to shake our shackles clear; The month so like the Irish friends of old. In song and laughter gay, in battle bold. Old Erin’s glens are far across the sea. But there a mother tells her beads for me; And I can feel my soul stir in its clay, As I march through the wind on Shamrogue Day. —Rosamond Livingstone McNaught.
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/periodicals/NZT19190306.2.87.5
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New Zealand Tablet, 6 March 1919, Page 45
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143MARCH. New Zealand Tablet, 6 March 1919, Page 45
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