Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan

Long they pine in weary woe — the nobles of our land —

Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas! and banned;

Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exie's brand,

But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

Think not her a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen;

Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen;

Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned a qeeen,

Were the king's son at home here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.

Sweet and mild would look her face — Oh! none so sweet and mild —

Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled;

Woolen plaids would grace herself and robes of silk her child,

If the king's son were living here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.