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Your hills and dales and flowery values that lie near the Moorlough Shore, |
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Your vines that blow by Bordons Grove, will I ever see you more? |
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Where the primrose blows and the violet grows, |
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Where the trout and salmon play, |
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With my line and hook, delight I took to spend my youthful days. |
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Last night I went to see my love and to hear what she might say, |
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To see if she'd take pity on me, lest I might go away. |
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She said, "I loved an Irish lad and he was my only joy, |
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And ever since I saw his face, I've loved that soldier boy." |
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"Perhaps your soldier lad is lost, sailing over the sea of main, |
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Or perhaps he's gone with some other one. You may never see him again." |
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"Well, if my Irish lad is lost, he's the one I do adore, |
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And seven years I will wait for him by the banks of the Moorlough Shore." |
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Farewell to Sinclair's Castle ground, farewell to the foggy hill |
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Where the linen webs lie bleaching silk and the bawdeen stream runs still. |
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Near there I spent my youthful days, but alas, they are no more, |
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For cruelty has banished me far away from the Moorlough Shore. |
