Sir Bee in the pursuit of honey,
While wand’ring o’er the lea,
Saw beautiful Miss Fairyfinger,
Whose sweet smile tempted him to linger,
And all unmindful of his duty,
Intoxicated by her beauty,
He flirted recklessly.

Into her dainty ear he murmured,
And loving things did say;
He kissed her on her lips so bonny,
She spread for him a feast of honey,
And she was happy with her lover;
But ah! Sir Bee was still a rover –
He laughed and flew away.

Friends, when you blame Sir Bee, remember
His imitators, too.
When heave your tender hearts with pity
For this poor maid so sweet and pretty,
Remember she is not the only
Confiding flow’r left sad and lonely
By those who should be true.

A cottage near Knockmanny
Was the home of Kathaleen,
A charming blue-eyed maiden,
With the carriage of a queen.

She was her father’s darling,
And the sole joy of his hearth;
And all the young men loved her –
For she was the soul of mirth.

How meek she looked and modest,
Every time we saw her pass
On Sundays with her father,
Up the village street to Mass.

On the brow of famed Knockmanny
Many fair maids have I seen,
From Errigal and Clogher;
But none fair as Kathaleen.

Sweet sings the thrush at evening,
And the lark the dawn to greet
But songs which Kathaleen sang
Were a thousand times as sweet.

Alas! with hearing wonders
Of a fair land o’er the foam,
A feverish longing seized her;
To emigrate from home.

Her friends strove to persuade her
To remain at home – in vain,
She said she’d leave this poor land,
For that rich land o’er the main.

She went – the tender blossom –
From the bower of her birth;
She went – and left her father
With a sad and lonely hearth.

Did Kathaleen return? Yes,
Before two years had passed –
But the tender flower had faded
‘Neath the friendless foreign blast.

Up the village to the churchyard,
(Just the way she used to go.)
The lily of Knockmanny
We bore, silent sad and slow.

Her sorrow-stricken father
Watched us deck her grave with green,
And now in death he slumbers
By the side of Kathaleen.

Lonely the path that I must wander now,
Since Dermot walks no longer by my side.
Sleeps he, nor dreams, upon a mountain’s brow
A near to where he fought, and fell, and died.

Oh, wild birds! singing in the groves he loved,
Wild winds! rejoicing that the spring is here –
He loved your voices while with me he roved –
Now mourn with me: for ye to him were dear.

It gives a melancholy pleasure, still
To wander by his fav’rite stream, and list
To his beloved friend, the thrush, until
Reality is hidden in a mist:

Then Dermot wanders by my side once more;
He smiles, and all the world is filled with light;
He speaks, and earth’s Elysium, as of yore –
O stay, fond vision, vanishing from sight!