Oh, father dear, I ofttimes hear,
You speak of Erin's isle,
Her lofty scenes, her valleys green,
And her mountains rude and wild,
They say, "It is a lovely land,
Where in a prince might dwell",
Then why did you abandon it?
The reason to me tell.

Oh, son, I loved my native land,
With energy and pride,
Till a blight came over all of my crops,
And my sheep and cattle died,
The rents and taxes were too high,
Sure, I could not them redeem,
And with a sigh,
Oh, I bid goodbye,
To you, old Skibbereen.

It's well that I remember,
That bleak November day,
When the landlord and the bailiffs came,
For to drive us all away,
They set our roof on fire,
With their demon yellow flame,
And that's another reason why,
I left old Skibbereen.

Your mother too, oh, god reset her soul,
Fell on the snowy ground,
She fainted in her anguish at
All the desolation round,
She never woke,
But she past away,
From life to mortal dreams,
Oh, she found her quiet grave, my boy,
In you, old Skibbereen.

And you were only six months old,
And feeble was your frame,
I could not leave you with your friends,
For you bore your father's name,
So I wrapped you in my cóta mór,
At the dead of night unseen,
And with a sigh,
Sure, I bid goodbye,
To you, old Skibbereen.

Oh, father dear,
The day will come,
When vengeance, loud will call,
And every man in Ireland,
He will answer to that call,
I'll be the man who leads the van,
Beneath our flag of green,
Oh, and loud and high we will raise the cry,
"Revenge for Skibbereen!".