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!