Smile down, O Sun on Foremass;
With jewels bright adorn,
Damp webs by fairy weavers
Hung out on whin and thorn –
To glad my Mary, driving
Her cattle forth at morn.

O, grove of trees wide spreading!
A pleasant shelter prove
From burning heat of noonday,
And croon sweet lays of love –
When Mary walks beneath you
O happy, honoured grove!

With scent of fading flowers,
With breath of peat and hay,
O gently, sofly kiss her,
Ye autumn winds that stray
When Mary comes to meet me
Across the whinny brae.

Wave golden corn to greet her –
Her hair is golden too;
Fair be thy skies, O Sunset!
To match her eyes of blue –
When home she drives her cattle
And waves her love adieu.

(AIR: “An Cruicin Fravigh”)

Green are the fields of Eirinn, this sunny summer weather;
The bloom is on the heather; blue is the arching sky;
The birds in every grove now are singing songs of love,
But I, when’re I hear them, think of you and sigh.

Stay with me, Oh! stay, love; do not go away love,
And leave your Irish boy here, in sadness to pine,
Oh! Stay with me – I’ll love you; I’ll be a shield above you –
I am not worthy of you, yet, sweetheart, be mine.

A down these quiet valleys, where grow the slender sallies,
Our native stream meanders; and sings its pleasant song.
Ah! don’t you hear it calling, when twilight shades are falling –
Calling us to rove still its green banks along!

Stay with me, oh! stay, love do not go away love,
And leave your Irish boy here, in sadness to pine,
Oh! stay with me – I’ll love you, I’ll be a shield above you –
I am not worthy of you yet, sweetheart, be mine.

I know this is a poor land, yet ‘tis your sires’ and your land;
Warm hearts are still in Eirinn, devoted hearts and true;
Then from them do not sever; and I – I’ll love you ever.
For next to God and Eirinn, my heart beats for you.

Stay with me, oh stay love; do not go away love,
And leave your Irish boy here, in sadness to pine.
Oh! stay with me – I’ll love you, I’ll be a shield above you –
I am not worthy of you, yet, sweetheart, be mine.

Had I the muse’s art divine,
A tender song I’d pour
From this devoted heart of mine,
To one whom I adore.
The love that sets my heart aflame
I’d clothe in words of fire;
Immortal I would make her name
My love, my heart’s desire.

I know my love I should not speak
To one so good and fair;
I feel my words are far too weak
My feelings to declare.
But I would hope her heart to gain
Some time – no matter when –
I’d be, ‘mid want and woe and pain
The happiest of men.

Had I the muse’s tuneful art,
I’d sing such songs divine
As would be sure to fill her heart
With love as great as mine.
And then I’d scale the hills of fame
I’d fortune win and power
To add fresh glory to her name
And grandeur to her bower.