I'm weary and sick of the sights of the town
Though haughty its mansions and high its renown
O! if some good fairy would but set me down
On an Old Irish hill in the morning!
My soul ever sighs for a sight of the sea
By dear old Kinvara, or down by Kilkee,
Or where Moher cliffs in their majesty free
Fling back ocean billows scorning.
An old Irish hill where the crag is so steep
The air is so sweet, and the heather so deep -
O! gladly I'd labour, and soundly I'd sleep
On an Old Irish hill in the morning!
These Saxons are hard, and their senses are cold
And all that they care for, or think of, is gold
What will cover their back, or their stomachs will hold,
Or what their shrunk shanks is adorning.
I miss the glad look and the grip of the hand,
The heart on the lips, and the welcome so bland,
The c
