I first heard his voice speaking low,
As he said to a colleen beside me,
“Who’s that pretty girl milking her cow?”
And many times after he met me,
And vowed that I always should be
His own little darling alanna,
Mavourneen a sweelish machree.
I haven’t the manners or graces
Of the girls in the world where ye move,
I haven’t their beautiful faces,