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I think upon Ireland as a place,

Betroth with girls of pretty face.

I think upon Ireland of a misty hill,

Forests and woodland ever fill,

Of birds happy in their places,

Sharing with little pixies faces,

Green lush graceful lands,

As hopeful as any hobbits hand,

Of magic and stories lost in the glen,

Sprites devilish tiptoeing over men.

A land of perfect harmonious bliss,

Where pixies stop to kiss.

A land one can’t forget

For once imprinted upon the mind, it is forever set.