Just to hear again the ripple of the trout stream
The women in the meadows making hay
And to sit beside a turf fire in the cabin
And watch the barefoot gosoons at their play

For the breezes blowing over the seas from Ireland
Are perfumed by the heather as it blows
And the women in the uplands diggin' praties
Speak a language that the strangers do not know

For the strangers came and tried to teach us their way
They scorn'd us just for being what we are
But they might as well go chasing after moonbeams
Or light a penny candle from a star

And if there is going to be a life hereafter
And somehow I am sure there's going to be
I well ask my God to let me make my heaven
In that dear land across the Irish sea.