As I was walking down a lane, as night was drawing nigh,
I met a colleen with three flowers and she more young than I,
"St. Patrick bless you dear," said I, "If you'll be quick and tell,
The place where you did find these flowers, I seem to know so well."

She took and kissed the first flower once and softly said to me,
"This flower I found in Thomas Street, in Dublin's fair city,
Its name is Robert Emmet, the fairest flower of all,
And I'll keep it fresh beside my breast, though all the world may fall."

She took and kissed the next flower twice and sweetly said to me,
"This flower I found in the Antrim hills outside Belfast", said she,
"The name I call it is Wolfe Tone, the sweetest flower of all,
And I'll keep it fresh beside my breast, though all the world may fall."

She took and kissed the next flower thrice and softly said to me,
"This flower comes from the Wicklow hills, dew wet and pure," said she,
"Its name is Michael Dwyer, the strongest flower of all,
And I'll keep it fresh beside my breast, though all the world should fall."

"Then Emmet, Tone and Dwyer I'll keep, for I do love them all,
And I'll keep them fresh beside my breast, though all the world should fall.".