Upon the bleak damp hill.
The beatin' from your heart is gone!
The starlight from your eye,
Mavrone Asthore, O Pat agra!
Arrah! why did ye die?
A sthrake of blood is on your breast,
An' blood is on your brow,
O let me die meself, an' rest,
It's all I care for now.
I want to go where you are gone,