Pity the fate of a poor Irish stranger
That wanders so far from his home
That sighs for protection from want, woe, and danger
That knows not from which way for to roam
Yet I'll never return to Hibernia's green bowers
For tyranny tramples the sweetest of flowers
That once gave me comfort in loneliest hoursâ€"
Now they are gone I shall ne'er see them more

With wonder I gazed on yon lofty building
As in grandeur I rose from its lord
But soon I beheld my fair garden yielding
The choicest of fruit for his foe
But, where is my father's lone cottage of clay
Wherein I' ve spent many a long day
Alas ! has his lordship conniv'd it away ?
Yes, it is gone, I shall never see it more

When nature was seen in the sloe bush and bramble
All smiling in beautiful bloom
Over the fields without danger, I often
Did ramble amidst their perfume ;
I have wranged through the woods where the gay feather'd
Throng
Joyfully sung their loud echoing songâ€"
These days then of summer passed sweetly along
Now they're goneâ€"I shall ne'er see them more !

When the sloe and the berries hung ripe on the bushes
I have gathered them off without harmâ€"
I have gone to the field and shorn the green rushes
Preparing for winter's cold storm !
Along with my friends telling tales of delight
Beguiling the hours of the long winter's night
Those days gave me pleasureâ€"I could them invite ;
Now they're gone, I shall ne'er see them more

Oh, Erin ! oh, Erin ! it grieves me to ponder
The wrongs of thy injurned isle !
Of thy sons may a thousand from home do wander
On shores far away an exile !
But give me the power to cross the main
Calumbia might yield me some shelter from pain
I am only lamenting whilst here I remain
For the boys I shall ne'er see again