Little girl, little girl, where are you going?
Down in the meadow where cowslips are blowing.
Little girl, little girl, what to do there?
To gather a garland to deck my brown hair.
Little girl, little girl, why all alone?
My mother has sent me, and playmates I've none.
Then follow me, follow me, down to yon wood,
Where you shall find playmates both gentle and good;
We'll ask them, we'll ask them to join in your play,
And your mother shall give you a long holiday.
From Erin, from Erin, the cotter shall bring,
To twine a gay garland, her shamrock of spring;
In her plaid, in her plaid, Scotia's daughter shall come,
With the thistle that grows on her mountains at home;
The peasant, the peasant of France shall be there,
And add to the chaplet his lily so fair;
Dark glancing, dark glancing, the daughter of Spain,
With the bloom of her orange shall join the gay train;
And leaving, and leaving his cold northern tides,
A plume from his eagle the Russian provides;
Whilst England, fair England, the wreath shall adorn,
With her rose-bud more bright than the blushes of morn.
Then carol, then carol the sweet strains of peace,
And never again may her harmony cease;
May the dreams, may the dreams of ambition be o'er,
And the falchion of war be at rest evermore.