My bark on the billow dash’d gloriously on,

And glad were the notes of the sailor-boy’s song;

Yet sad was my bosom and bursting with woe,

For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,

Oh, my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go.

More dear than the flowers that Italy yields,

Are the red-breasted daisies that spangle thy fields,

The shamrock, the hawthorn, the white blossom sloe,

For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,

Oh, my heart’s, &c.

The shores they look lovely, yet cheerless and vain,

Bloom the lilies of France, and the olives of Spain;

When I think of the fields where the wild daisies grow,

Then my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,

Oh, my heart’s, &c.

The lilies and roses abandon the plains,

Though the summer’s gone by, still the shamrock remains,

Like a friend in misfortune it blossoms o’er the snow,

For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,

Oh, my heart’s, &c.

I sigh and I vow, if e’er I get home,

No more from my dear native cottage I’ll roam;