One night as oppressed with soft slumbers I lay,
And dreamed of old Erin oft thought of by day,
With the long, wasting wars between Saxon and Gael,
Up rose the bright vision of Graínne Mhaol.

Old Erin's green mantle around her was flung,
And down her fair shoulders the rich tresses hung,
Her eyes like the sun of the young morning shone,
Whilst her harp sent forth strains of the days now gone.

Of Erin's fair daughters a circle was seen,
Each one with her distaff surrounding the Queen,
Whose sweet vocal chorus was heard to prolong,
The soul-stirring anthems of harp and song.

To Erin, what shame and what lasting disgrace,
That her sons should be crushed by a vile foreign race,
Who have banished her priests and polluted her thanes,
And turned to a desert her fertile plains.

To Erin, what shame and what lasting disgrace,
That her sons should be crushed by a vile foreign race,
Who have banished her priests and polluted her thanes,
And turned to a desert her fertile plains.