It is in with the sails and away to shore, With the rise and swing, the rise and swing Of two stout lads at each smoking oar, After herring, our king! herring, our king.
The Manx and Cornish raised the shout, And joined the chase, and joined the chase; But their fleets they fouled as they went about, And we won the race, we won the race;
For we turned and faced you full to land, Down the góleen[16] long, the góleen long, And after you slipped from strand to strand Our nets so strong, our nets so strong;
Then we called to our sweethearts and our wives, “Come welcome us home, welcome us home,” Till they ran to meet us for their lives Into the foam, into the foam;
O kissing of hands and waving of caps From girl and boy, from girl and boy, While you leapt by scores in the lasses’ laps, Herring our joy, herring our joy!
Sing, Hugamar féin an sowra lin’, ’Tis we have brought the summer in!
I’ve been soft in a small way On the girleens of Galway, And the Limerick lasses have made me feel quare; But there’s no use denyin’, No girl I’ve set eye on Could compate wid Rose Ryan of the town of Kenmare.
O, where Can her like be found? No where, The country round, Spins at her wheel Daughter as true, Sets in the reel, Wid a slide of the shoe a slinderer, tinderer, purtier, wittier colleen than you, Rose, aroo!
Her hair mocks the sunshine, And the soft, silver moonshine Neck and arm of the colleen completely eclipse; Whilst the nose of the jewel Slants straight as Carran Tual From the heaven in her eye to her heather-sweet lip.
Did your eyes ever follow The wings of the swallow Here and there, light as air, o’er the meadow field glance? For if not you’ve no notion Of the exquisite motion Of her sweet little feet as they dart in the dance.
If y’ inquire why the nightingale Still shuns th’ invitin’ gale That wafts every song-bird but her to the West, Faix she knows, I suppose, Ould Kenmare has a Rose That would sing any Bulbul to sleep in her nest
When her voice gives the warnin’ For the milkin’ in the mornin’ Ev’n the cow known for hornin’, comes runnin’ to her pail; The lambs play about her And the small bonneens[17] snout her Whilst their parints salute her wid a twisht of the tail.
When at noon from our labour We draw neighbour wid neighbour From the heat of the sun to the shelter of the tree, Wid spuds[18] fresh from the bilin’, And new milk, you come smilin’, All the boys’ hearts beguilin’, alannah machree![19]