To better my fortune I’ve cross’d the big sea;
But I’m sadly alone, not a creature to mind me,
And faith I’m as wretch’d as wretch’d can be;
I think of the buttermilk, fresh as the daisy,
The beautiful halls and the emerald plain,
And, ah! don’t I oftentimes think myself crazy
About that black-eyed rogue, Norah M’Shane.
I sigh for the turf-pile so cheerfully burning,
When barefoot I trudged it from toiling afar,
When I toss’d in the light the thirteen I’d been earning,