In Tir-na’n-Og,
In Tir-na’n-Og,
He hath forgotten hill and glen where misty shadows gather,
The bleating of the mountain sheep, the cabin of his father.
In Tir-na’n-Og,
In Tir-na’n-Og,
He wanders in a happy dream thro’ scented golden hours,
He flutes, to woo a fairy love, knee deep in fairy flowers.
In Tir-na’n-Og,
In Tir-na’n-Og,