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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