The Wild Geese

Wild geese fly overhead In the wild Autumn weather. Souls of the newly-dead Crying and flying together. Home from the last great fight, The souls of the Irish farin' With a wild heart in the night, A grey eye turned to Erin. High and high in the sky, From the red fields of slaughter Ever they fly and cry For the brown bog, the grey water. Wild geese in the wild even, Steady and strong their flight, Their beds are made in Heaven, All of the down white. They have forgone that bliss Till they have seen once more The little land of peace, Green and bright as of yore. High o'er the sheep and cattle, The bogs and the mountains lone, The souls new-home from the battle Cry their love and are flown.