1. Still green are thy mountains and bright is thy shore, And the voice of thy fountains is heard as of yore: The sun o'er thy valleys, dear Erin, shines on, Though thy bard and thy lover forever is gone.

2. Nor shall he, an exile, thy glad scenes forget The friends fondly loved, ne'er again to be met The glens where he mused on the deeds of his nation, And waked his young harp with wild inspiration.

3. Still, still, though between us may roll the broad ocean, Will I cherish thy name with the same deep devotion; And though minstrels more brilliant my place may supply, None loves you more fondly, more truly than I.

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