My Maire bhan! My Maire bhan,
—I’ve come to say good-bye, love;
To France I sail away at dawn—
—My fortune for to try, love.
The cause is lost a stoir mo chroi,
—All hope has now departed;
And Ireland’s gallant chivalry,
—Is scatter’d broken-hearted.
Ah! pleasant are our Munster vales,
—Encrowned in summer sheen, love,
But now no more the autumn gales
—Unfold our flag of green, love;
And say, could we remain and see
—In ruin and dishonor
Far o’er those valleys waving free
—The foeman’s blood-red banner!
No, sweeter in far lands to roam
—From Lee’s green banks and thee, love,
Than live a coward-slave at home
—To plighted vows untrue, love,
And better ne’er to grasp thy hand
—Or view those tresses shining,
Than ‘mong the cravens of the land
—Crouch down in fetters pining!
Mo bhron! ‘tis hard to part from thee,
—My heart’s bright pearl, my own love,
And wandering in a far country,
—To leave you sad and lone, love!
But spring’s young flowers will crown the glen,
—And wreath the fairy wildwood,
And Druith’s feet will pace again
—The mountains of my childhood.
Farewell, farewell, mo mhuirnin bhan
—Time flies, I must away, love;
‘Twill soon be dawn, ‘twill soon be dawn,
—My steed begins to neigh, love;
Farewell, preserve thine heart as true,
—As changeless as yon river,
And Druith’s will be true to you,
—Anear, afar—forever!