O Erin! To thy harp divine
I bid adieu:
Yet let me now its sounds resign
With homage due.
Thy gen'rous sons, that know not fear,
Their feelings, genius, fire:
O blest be all! But Erin dear,
Be blest thy lyre.

O where the heart that would not bound
With answering beat,
To hear thy Planxty's dancing sound,
And numbers sweet.
And where the heart that sinks not low,
And musing melts away,
To hear thy harp's deep lonely flow,
When mourns the lay.

No toil can e'er such sweets supply
No chymic power,
As brings me bee, with honied thigh,
From wild heath flower:
And Science, that could wake the strings
To chords of rapture high.
May envy, while she smiling sings
Thy minstrelsy.