The music of the waterfall,
      the mirror of the tide,
    When all the green-hill’d harbour
      is full from side to side,
    From Portnasun to Bulliebawns,
      and round the Abbey Bay,
    From rocky Inis Saimer
      to Coolnargit sandhills gray;
    While far upon the southern line,
      to guard it like a wall,
    The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue
      gaze calmly over all,
    And watch the ship sail up or down,
      the red flag at her stern;—­
    Adieu to these, adieu to all
      the winding banks of Erne!

    Farewell to you, Kildoney lads,
      and them that pull an oar,
    A lug-sail set, or haul a net,
      from the Point to Mullaghmore;
    From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League,
      that ocean-mountain steep,
    Six hundred yards in air aloft,
      six hundred in the deep,
    From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge,
      and round by Tullen strand,
    Level and long, and white with waves,
      where gull and curlew stand;
    Head out to sea when on your lee
      the breakers you discern!—­
    Adieu to all the billowy coast,
      and winding banks of Erne!

    Farewell, Coolmore,—­Bundoran! and
      your summer crowds that run
    From inland homes to see with joy
      th’ Atlantic-setting sun;
    To breathe the buoyant salted air,
      and sport among the waves;
    To gather shells on sandy beach,
      and tempt the gloomy caves;
    To watch the flowing, ebbing tide,
      the boats, the crabs, the fish;
    Young men and maids to meet and smile,
      and form a tender wish;
    The sick and old in search of health,
      for all things have their turn—­
    And I must quit my native shore,
      and the winding banks of Erne!

    Farewell to every white cascade
      from the Harbour to Belleek,
    And every pool where fins may rest,
      and ivy-shaded creek;
    The sloping fields, the lofty rocks,
      where ash and holly grow,
    The one split yew-tree gazing
      on the curving flood below;
    The Lough, that winds through islands
      under Turaw mountain green;
    And Castle Caldwell’s stretching woods,
      with tranquil bays between;
    And Breesie Hill, and many a pond
      among the heath and fern,—­
    For I must say adieu—­adieu
      to the winding banks of Erne!

    The thrush will call through Camlin groves
      the live-long summer day;
    The waters run by mossy cliff,
      and banks with wild flowers gay;
    The girls will bring their work and sing
      beneath a twisted thorn,
    Or stray with sweethearts down the path
      among the growing corn;
    Along the river-side they go,
      where I have often been,
    Oh, never shall I see again
      the happy days I’ve seen! 
    A thousand chances are to one
      I never may return,—­
    Adieu to Belashanny,
      and the winding banks of Erne!