Oh! linnet gay, so bright and free,
I love thee well; thy songs alway
Are cherished in the heart of me
Oh! linnet gay.

Yet now I ask thee to depart,
And to yon distant valley wing;
There dwells the bouchaill of my heart.
To Brian sing.

The sweetest songs thou e’er hast sung,
And sing them in thy grandest style;
He’s toiling now the fields among
Go, cheer his toil.

Sing to him of a girl who sits
Within a cottage poor but trim,
That while her father’s socks she knits,
She thinks of him.

Oh! balmy wind, so cool and sweet,
Hoard up thy balm till thou dost find
My Brian toiling in the heat
Oh! balmy wind.

Then clasp him in a kind embrace,
And wipe the toil damp off his brow,
And kiss him on his handsome face
Would I wert thou.

My grief, to think that he must toil
Alone, the live-long day so hard,
With none to cheer with loving smile,
Or pleasant word.