The castle or tow'r, a shelter from danger,
When foemen invaded thy sea-beaten shore.

Oh, Erin, I roam, in my thoughts, by thy rivers,
I stand by thy lakes, in delight at the view,
And ever I pray for the time, that delivers
This nation from strife, and from misery, too.
From Shannon's green banks unto Erne's limpid waters,
I've travell'd in thought, while this was my pray'r:
That sons of Fermanagh, and Limerick's daughters.
Should join in a union of loyalty, there.

For what loyal maid, from the banks of the Shannon,
Or what Irish lad, from the slopes of the Bann,
Would not dread the day, when the boom of the cannon
Should speak of destruction and death, from the van?
And what loyal son of old Ireland's glory,
From Cork's cove of beauty, to Foyle's distant shore,
Would not mourn the day, when, cold, lifeless and gory,
Brave forms downfallen, should rise never more?

And who would not hail, throughout Erin's dominion,
The time when Religion's bright form should arise,
And sail o'er the land; with her blest, healing pinion,
And bring to all hearts the truth in one guise?

And then, in his home, afar o'er the ocean,
Or by the turf fire, upon Erin's old sod,
Each Irishman, kneeling in humble devotion,
Would love all his brothers, while praying to God.