On Innisfallen's fairy isle,
Amid the blooming bushes,
We leant upon the lovers' stile,
And listened to the thrushes;
When first I sighed to see her smile,
And smiled to see her blushes.
Her hair was bright as beaten gold,
And soft as spider's spinning,
Her cheek outbloomed the apple old
That set our parents sinning,
And in her eyes you might behold
My joys and griefs beginning.
In Innisfallen's fairy grove
I hushed my happy wooing,
To listen to the brooding dove
Amid the branches cooing;
But oh! how short those hours of love,
How long their bitter rueing!
Poor cushat! thy complaining breast
With woe like mine is heaving.
With thee I mourn a fruitless quest;
For ah! with art deceiving
The cuckoo-bird has robbed my nest,
And left me wildly grieving.
