1922, we signed our name,

On a brand‑new map, still half the same,

Twenty‑six hearts in a ragged line,

Éire’s flame and a border’s spine.

From Carrauntoohil to the rolling plain,

Central fields and Atlantic rain,

Slieve League higher where the seabirds fly,

Moher’s waves and a mist‑grey sky.

Shannon rolls on for three‑six‑zero,

Not just a number but a hometown hero,

Green fields humming in the drizzle and breeze,

Old songs carried on the western seas.

Catherine in the Áras, new light in the dawn,

(Áras = Áras an Uachtaráin, president’s residence)

Seventy million hearts, but Éire’s still one song,

Éire go brách, we’re scattered but we shine,

From Galway Bay to a Brooklyn skyline.

Up in the North where the Causeway stands,

UK postcode on basalt strands,

Same wild ocean, same grey spray,

Different flag in the coastal bay.

Diaspóra mór, from Boston rain,

Back to Donegal in the midnight train,

Fadó, fadó, but we’re still not gone,

Every second pub has a rebel song.

Ní hamháin traid, táimid pop agus rock,

(“Not just trad, we’re pop and rock”)

Rap as Gaeilge on a city block,

Fiddle and a kick drum, synths in the night,

Old ghost stories in a neon light.

Catherine in the Áras, new verse, same rhyme,

Three‑six‑zero Shannon keeping time,

Éire go brách in a world so wide,

One small island with a giant tide.