Silent, O Moyle, be the roar of thy water
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes
When shall the swan, her death-note singing
Sleep, with wings in darkness furled?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing
Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, O Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping
Fate bids me languish long ages away;
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping
Still doth the pure light its dawning delay
When will that day-star, mildly springing
Warm our isle with peace and love?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing
Call my spirit to the fields above?