As the surf beat cold on the western shore

As the sun set low on the Irish Sea

I saw the sail of a tiny boat,

Through the mists of time it sailed to me..

The man at the helm played a golden harp

And sang of the hills of a distant home

At the pointed prow stood a woman in white

With a silver cross and a black lodestone.

Mens strong arms pulled the boat ashore

Calloused hands helped her to the land,

She built a hall for the silver cross

Dropped the travellers stone in the cold, wet sand......