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There's a glen in old Tir Connaill There's a cottage in that glen Where there dwelt an Irish colleen Who inspired the hearts of men She was handsome hale and hearty Shy and graceful like the dawn And they loved the widow's daughter Handsome laughing Noreen Bawn.
Till one day there came a letter With her passage paid to go To the fand where the Missouri And the Mississippi flow. So she said good-bys to Erin, And next morning with the dawn This poor widow broken hearted Parted with her Noreen Bawn.
Many years the widow waited; Till one morning to her door Came a tender hearted woman Costly were the clothes the wore, Saying „Mother, don't you know me, Tho' I'm frail tis but a cold" But her cheeks were flushed and scarlet And another tale they told
There's a
grave-yard in Tir Connaill Where the flowers
wildly wave. There's a grey
haired mother kneeling O'er a green and
lonely grave. And "My 'Noreen"
she is saying "It's been lonely
since you've gone. T'was the curse of
immigration Laid you here my
Noreen Bawn."
Now fond youths
and tender maidens Ponder well before
you go Front your humble
homes in Erin, What's beyond
you'll never know. What is gold and
what is silver When your health
and strength are gone, When they speak of
immigration Won't you think of
Noreen Bawn.
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