  Composed by an emigrant named MacAmbrois. Oh! were I again on my native bay, By the curving hills that are far away, I scarcely would wander for half a day From the Cuckoo's Glen of a Sunday! For, och, och, Eire, O! Lone is the exile from Eire, O! 'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary! O many a Christmas in Ireland, I would race with the boys on the pleasant strand, With my hurling-stick in my baby hand, And but little sense to guide me! And, och, och, Eire, O! Sad is the exile from Eire, O! 'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary! Lonely and drear is this foreign plain, Where I hear but my own voice back again, No call of the corncrake, cuckoo, or crane, Now awakens me on a Sunday! Then, och, och, Eire, O! Lost is the exile from Eire, O! 'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary! With the help of God I'd reach Erin's shore, Nay, the very tide might drift me o'er, To die at home in Erin! Now, och, och, Eire, O! Would I were back in Eire, O! 'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary! |
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