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| OVER here in England I’m helpin’ wi’ the hay, | |
| And I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day; | |
| Weary on the English hay, an’ sorra take the wheat! | |
| Och! Corrymeela, an’ the blue sky over it. | |
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| There’s a deep dumb river flowin’ by beyont the heavy trees, | 5 |
| This livin’ air is moithered wi’ the hummin’ o’ the bees; | |
| I wisht I’d hear the Claddagh burn go runnin’ through the heat, | |
| Past Corrymeela, wi’ the blue sky over it. | |
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| The people that’s in England is richer nor the Jews, | |
| There’s not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in his shoes! | 10 |
| I’d give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child, | |
| Och! Corrymeela, an’ the low south wind. | |
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| Here’s hands so full o’ money an’ hearts so full o’ care, | |
| By the luck o’ love! I’d still go light for all I did go bare. | |
| “God save ye, colleen dhas,” I said; the girl she thought me wild! | 15 |
| Fair Corrymeela, an’ the low south wind. | |
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| D’ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial hard to raise, | |
| The girls are heavy goin’ here, the boys are ill to plase; | |
| When ones’t I’m out this workin’ hive, ’tis I’ll be back again— | |
| Aye, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain. | 20 |
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| The puff o’ smoke from one ould roof before an English town! | |
| For a shaugh wid Andy Feelan here I’d give a silver crown, | |
| For a curl o’ hair like Mollie’s ye’ll ask the like in vain, | |
| Sweet Corrymeela, an’ the same soft rain. | |
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