When I was a maiden fair and young,
On the pleasant banks of the Lee,
No bird that in the greenwood sung,
Was half so blithe and free,
My heart near beat with flying feet,
No love sang me his queen,
Till down the glen rode Sarsfield's men,
And they wore the jackets green.

Young Donal sat on his gallant grey,
Like a king on a royal seat,
And my heart leapt out on his regal way,
To worship at his feet,
Oh Love, had you come in those colours dressed,
And wooed with a soldier's mein,
I'd have laid my head on your throbbing breast,
For the sake of your jacket green.

Well, no hoarded wealth did my love own,
The gold sword that he bore,
But I loved him for his self alone,
And the colours that he wore,
For had he come in England's red,
To make me England's queen,
I would rove the high green hills instead,
For the sake of Irish green.

When William stormed with shot and shell,
At the walls of Garryowen,
In the breach of death my Donal fell,
And he sleeps near the Treaty Stone,
That breach the foeman never crossed,
While he swung his broadsword keen,
But I do not weep my darling lost,
For he fell in his jacket green.

When Sarsfield sailed away I wept,
As I heard the wild ochone,
I felt, then dead as the men who slept,
Neath the fields of Garryowen,
While Ireland held my Donal blessed,
No wild sea rolled between,
Till I would fold him to my breast,
All robed in his Irish green.

My soul has sobbed like waves of woe,
That sad o'er tombstones break,
For I buried my heart in his grave below,
For his and for Ireland's sake,
And I cry, "Make way for the soldier's bride,
In your halls of death, sad queen,"
For I long to rest by my true love's side,
And wrapped in the folds of green.

I saw the Shannon's purple tide,
Roll by the Irish town,
As I stood in the breach by young Donal's side,
When England's flag went down,
And now it glows when I seek the sky,
A blood-red curse between,
I weep, but it is not a women's sighs,
Will raise our Irish green.

Oh Ireland, sad is thy lonely soul,
And loud beats the winter seas,
But sadder and higher the wild waves roll,
From hearts that break for thee,
Yet grief shall come to our heartless foes,
Let their thrones in the dust be seen,
So Irish maids love none but those,
Who wear the jackets green.