Some poets sing of a noble king,. Or of a sweetheart fair.. Some tell a tale of ships that sail. With treasures rich and rare.. But my humble pen still drifts again.
When all is said and done. You're still a lucky one. And I've lost out again this time. You said that we were strong. Said that we'd go on and on. Do you see that you were wrong this time?.
After the morning there comes an evening. And after the evening another day. And after a false love there comes a true love. I'd have you listen now to what I say.
In a land of O'Cahan where bleak mountains rise. O'er those brown ridgy tops now the dusky clouds fly. Deep sunk in a valley a wild flower did grow. And her name was Finvola, the Gem of the Roe.
The snow it melts the soonest when the winds begin to sing. And the corn it ripens fastest when the frost is setting in. And when the young man tells me that my face he'll soon forget.
Farewell to old Ireland, the land of my childhood. Which now and forever I am going to leave. Farewell to the shores, where the shamrock is growing. It's the bright spot of beauty and the home of the brave.