Heavy my heart out of Erin steering
And nearing Alba of the beetling brows.

My foot is fast in my chiming curragh,
Tears of sorrow my sad heart fill.
Who lean not on God are but feeble-minded,
Without His Love we go blinded still.

There is a grey eye that tears are thronging,
Fixed with longing on Erin's shore,
It shall never see o'er the waste of waters
The sons and daughters of Erin more.

Its glance goes forth o'er the brine wave-broken,
Far off from the firm-set, oaken seat;
Many the tears from that grey eye streaming,
The faint, far gleaming of Erin to meet.

For indeed my soul is set upon Erin,
And all joys therein from Linnhe to Lene,
On each pleasant prospect of proud Ultonia,
Mild Momonia and Meath the green.

In Alba eastward the lean Scot increases,
Frequent the diseases and murrain in her parts,
Many in her mountains the scanty-skirted fellows,
Many are the hard and the jealous hearts.

Many in the West are our Kings and Princes noble,
Orchards bend double beneath their fruitage vast;