Bury me in yon mountains for it’s there in death I lie;
Where the music of rill and fountain, go murmuring softly by.
The shamrock gleam above me, planted by some friendly hand.
And it’s next to God I love thee, dear Éireann my native land.

For its poor and cold I found thee, though I travelled this world o’er,
And my heart clings fondly round thee, like the ivy around the shore.
I have no gold nor treasures, no enchantments ??
But the wind and dews above me, are the tears and the sighs for me.

My friends they do forget me, when the grass grows o’er my grave,
But God you won’t forsake me for prayer is the boon I crave.
And when bonded chains are broken, and old Éireann’s sons set free,
Won’t someone send a token, that will bear the glad news to me.

I’ll rise from death’s cold slumber, and the harp once more will sound;
And I’ll strike such shrilling numbers, they will waken the dead around.