Come home, come home, o’er the wide ocean foam,
To the mother that’s grieving for you.
There’s no spot in God’s earth, like the place of your birth,
There’s no sky like the dear Irish bloom.

No heart will you find, like that one left behind,
In that cabin thatched whitewashed and low.
At the top of that winding boreen,
Where the grass and the hawthorn grow.

Sure it’s many’s the day since you went far away,
From the mother that’s loved you so true.
Sure my poor eyes are dim, from the watching and tears,
For those long weary years I am grieving for you.

Sure it’s not the gold, I am wanting at all,
That you’re sending from over the sea.
For I love you far more, than the earth’s golden store,
It’s yourself I am longing to see.

I ask God on earth, e’re I’m laid ‘neath the sun,
That one glimpse of your face I might see.
Sure He’ll answer my prayer, for I know you’ll come home;
It’s yourself I am wanting mo chroí.

Oh come back to me, a stór a mo chroí,
For it’s lonely my heart is and sore.
To think the broad ocean between you and me,
And you on a cold stranger's floor.
To think the broad ocean between you and me,
And you on a cold stranger's floor.