Since the children of Israel were in Egypt
    Under bondage, and scarcity along with that,
    There was never written in a book or never seen
    Hardship like the hardships in Ireland. 
    They parted from us the shepherds of the flock
    That is the flock that is astray and is wounded,
    Left to be torn by wild dogs,
    And no healing for it from the hand of anyone. 
    Unless God will look down on our distress
    Ireland will indeed be lost for ever! 
    Every old man, every strong man, every child,
    Our young men and our well-dressed women,
    Keening, complaining, and reproaching;
    Going under the power of the Gall or going across the sea. 
    Our dear country without any ears of corn,
    Without store, without cattle, but only the green grass;
    Our fatherless children are wasted and weak,
    Famine and sickness travelling over Ireland,
    And every other scourge that was ever known,
    And the rest of her pain has not yet been told.

      Nevertheless, my sharp woe!  I see with my eyes
    That the High King has a bow ready in His hand,
    And His quiver is full of arrows with sharp points,
    And every arrow of them for our sore wounding,
    From the sole of our feet to the top of our head,
    To bruise our hearts and to tear our sinews;
    There is no spot of our limbs but is scarred;
    Misfortune has come upon us all together—­
    The poor and the rich, the weak and the strong;
    The great lord by whom hundreds were maintained;
    The powerful strong man, and the man that holds the plough;
    And the cross laid on the bare shoulder of every man.

      I do not know of anything under the sky
    That is friendly or favourable to the Gael,
    But only the sea that our need brings us to,
    Or the wind that blows to the harbour
    The ship that is bearing us away from Ireland;
    And there is reason that these are reconciled with us,
    For we increase the sea with our tears,
    And the wandering wind with our sighs.

      We do not see heaven look kindly upon us;
    We do not see our complaint being listened to;
    Even the earth refuses us shelter
    And the wood that gives protection to the birds;
    Every cliff, every cave, every mountain-top,
    Every hill, every lough, and every meadow.

      Our feasts are without any voice of priests,
    And none at them but women lamenting,
    Tearing their hair, with troubled minds,
    Keening pitifully after the Fenians. 
    The pipes of our organs are broken;
    Our harps have lost their strings that were tuned
    That might have made the great lamentations of Ireland;
    Until the strong men come back across the sea,
    There is no help for us but bitter crying,
    Screams, and beating of hands, and calling out.