More dear than the flowers that Italy yields,
Are the red-breasted daisies that spangle thy fields,
The shamrock, the hawthorn, the white blossom sloe,
For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,
Oh, my heart’s, &c.
The shores they look lovely, yet cheerless and vain,
Bloom the lilies of France, and the olives of Spain;
When I think of the fields where the wild daisies grow,
Then my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,
Oh, my heart’s, &c.