And the thrush and blackbird's lay,
The summer songsters, sweet and wild,
In the Green Isle, far away.
Along the blue horizon line
The "bluffs" rise 'gainst the sky,
But in dreams I see Old Erin's coast--
Her mountains wild and high
Slieve Gallon, with his hoary head
Gold-crowned at close of day,
When sunset lights the grand old hills
In the Green Isle, far away.

There's beauty in the woodland wilds
With their varied foliage fair,
But, cowering from the light of day,
The grim wolf shelters there.
Ah! dear old woods, where I have roamed
At eve of summer day,
No hidden dangers haunt your glades,
In the Green Isle, far away.

The clear Assiniboine winds free
Through many a fertile vale;
The antlered deer and graceful hind
Bound o'er the wooded dale;
But I miss the quiet rural scenes--
The farm-house, thatched and grey,
That memory fondly pictures now
Of the Green Isle, far away.