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I've courted till I've heard the craw
Of honest chanticleerie, O,
Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,
Whan wi' my kind dearie, O.
For tho' the night were ne'er sae dark,
An' I were ne'er sae weary, O,
I'd meet thee on the lee rig,
My ain kind dearie, O.
While in this weary warld o' wae,
This wilderness sae drearie. O,
What mak's me blythe, an' keeps me sae?
'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O.
The Exile of Erin's Return.
Tune-Erin go Bragh.
O'er the hills of Slieve-galen, as homeward he wa
der'd,
The Exile of Erin oft paus'd with delight;
To dear recollections his soul he surrender'd.
As each well-known object return'd to his sight.
Here was the brook oft he leap'd so light-hearted,
Here was the bower where with love he first smarted
And here was the old oak, where, when he departed
He carv'd his last farewell, 'twas Erin go bragh
