Could I keep the ould places about me still
I’d never set foot out of sweet Ballyvoy.
My sorra on Rachray, the could sea-caves,
An’ blackneck divers, an’ weary ould waves!
I’ll never win back now, whatever may fall,
So give me good luck, for ye’ll see me no more;
Sure an Island man is the mischief an’ all—
An’ me that was never married before!
Oh think o’ my fate when ye dance at a fair,
In Rachray, there’s no Christianity there.