Och man alive! but it's little ye know That never was there, never was there. Look where ye like for them, long may ye go,-- What do I care? what do I care? Plenty as blackberries where will ye find Rare pretty girls not by two nor by three o' them? Only just there where they grow, d'ye mind Still like the blackberries, more than ye see o' them.
Long, long away, an' no matther how far, 'Tis the girls that I miss, the girls that I miss: Women are round ye wherever ye are Not worth a kiss, not worth a kiss. Over in Ireland many's the one,-- Well do I know, that has nothing to say wid them,-- Sweeter than anythin' undher the sun, Och, 'tis the Irish girls has the way wid them!
'Tis the long blue Head o' Garron From the sea, Och, we're sailin' past the Garron On the sea. Now Glen Ariff lies behind, Where the waters fall an' wind By the willows o' Glen Ariff to the sea.
Ould Luirgedan rises green By the sea, Ay, he stands between the Glens An' the sea. Now we're past the darklin' caves, Where the breakin' summer waves Wandher in wi' their trouble from the sea.
But Cushendun lies nearer To the sea, An' _thon's_ a shore is dearer Still to me, For the land that I am leavin' Sure the heart I have is grievin', But the ship has set her sails for the sea.
Och, what's this is deeper Than the sea? An' what's this is stronger Nor the sea? When the call is "all or none," An' the answer "all for one," Then we be to sail away across the sea.
Wathers o' Moyle an' the white gulls flyin', Since I was near ye what have I seen? Deep great seas, an' a sthrong wind sighin' Night an' day where the waves are green. _Struth na Moile_, the wind goes sighin' Over a waste o' wathers green.
Slemish an' Trostan, dark wi' heather, High are the Rockies, airy-blue; Sure ye have snows in the winter weather, Here they're lyin' the long year through. Snows are fair in the summer weather, Och, an' the shadows between are blue!
Lone Glen Dun an' the wild glen flowers, Little ye know if the prairie is sweet. Roses for miles, an' redder than ours Spring here undher the horses' feet, Ay, an' the black-eyed gold sunflowers, Not as the glen flowers small an' sweet.
Wathers o' Moyle, I hear ye callin' Clearer for half o' the world between, Antrim hills an' the wet rain fallin' Whiles ye are nearer than snow-tops keen: Dreams o' the night an' a night wind callin'-- What is the half o' the world between?