There's a dear little isle in the western ocean,
An island of purity, holy and grand.
Its name fills its daughters and its sons with emotion,
When heard on the shores of a far distant land.

It is Ireland, God bless her, it’s the birthplace of heroes,
The home of the patriot, warrior, and saint.
Of bards and of chieftains whose names are inscribed there,
May they live forever in history's green page.

I love every blade of grass green on your mountains,
Every leaf on your tree, every rock on your sand.
I love your green hill and your murmuring fountain,
I love you, a-cushla, my own dear native land.

You once were a proud and a glorious nation,
Your name and your fame, has spread all over the world.
But misfortune came on you, and sad desolation,
And the emerald banner, in slavery lay unfurled.

They tortured your children, they destroyed your green bower,
They tried to exterminate you long, long ago.
But the Irish are somehow like wild, creeping flowers,
The faster that you pluck them, is the quicker they seem to grow.

I love every blade of grass green on your mountain,
Every leaf on your tree, every rock on your sand.
I love your green hill and your murmuring fountain,
I love you, a-cushla, my own dear native land.

“Usually known as, ‘Dear Little Isle’ this was among to most regularly sung emigration songs we heard when we first came to Clare. There are numerous examples of it being sung and recorded, but no background information.”
Jim Carroll