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.