I’ve never walked the Wicklow winds, nor seen the Cliffs of Moher rise, But tales of selkies, banshees’ cries, they echo deep behind my eyes. No turf beneath these city boots, no peat smoke in my hair, Yet every fiddle tune I hear feels like a whispered prayer. I’ve never kissed the Blarney Stone, nor danced in Galway rain, But I’ve wept for rebel songs that speak of joy and pain. The lilt of voices in the pub, the bodhrán’s steady beat. They stir a fire I can’t explain, a rhythm in my feet. [Chorus] So, Take me to that familiar Isle that I’ve never been to, Where the hills know my name and the skies feel true. Where the myths are alive and the stories still roam, Take me home to the place I’ve never called home. Yes, Take me to that familiar Isle that I’ve never been to. Where my soul remembers what my body never knew. I’ve never seen the faerie forts or danced the Samhain flame, But I’ve dreamed of ancient forests where no tree grows the same. The harp that mourns, the crow that calls, the moss upon the stone. They feel like kin I’ve never met, yet somehow I’ve known. Maybe it’s the blood, or just the stories told, Or maybe hearts can recognize a land more old than old. I’ve wandered far in search of roots, through silence and through song, And found a place I’ve never touched where I’ve belonged all along. [Chorus] So, Take me to that familiar Isle that I’ve never been to, Where the wind speaks in riddles and the rain feels new. Where the ghosts wear smiles and the past still sings, Take me home to the land of forgotten things. Yes, Take me to that familiar Isle that I’ve never been to. Where my soul remembers what my body never knew.
