I said to Lily, fair, my hand among her curls,
If we were Red Branch Knights, or high and noble Earls,
Or poets grand like Burns, instead of simple girls,
We might do some noble deed,
Or touch some tuneful reed,
Something for the land we love to bring her high renown,
The land where we were born;
Is spoken of with scorn,
Her children's songs should praise her, her children's deeds should
crown.

My fair and stately Lily how thy hand sought mine
Clasped it warm and tender with sympathy in thine,
As I wished that we could make our 'streams and burmes shine'
There's many a ruin old,
There's many a castle bold,
There's Sleive mis with his head in mist, here's the silver Maine,
But who of them will sing
Till the whole world shall ring,
With the melody, and ask to hear it once again?

If one of her own children standing boldly forth,
With eyes to see her beauty, a heart to know her worth,
Would fling the charm of song o'er the green robe of the North
Lily said, sweet friend there's one,
And his name is Herbison,
Who sings of Northern Erin in sunlight and in storm,
Of the legend and the tale,
Of the banshees awful wail,
Of Dunluce upon the sea, of the castle of Galgorm