Farewell to you, old Ireland, since I must go away.
I now shake hands and bid goodbye and can no longer stay.
Our big ship lies in deep Lough Foyle bound for the New York shore,
And I must go from all I know and lovely Moneymore.

That little town encircled round with many's the grove and hill,
Where lads and lassies they do meet, for pleasure there's the rule,
Through Springhill braes and flowery fields, where oft I've wandered o'er,
And by my side was the girl I loved, the rose of Moneymore.

How lonely is the pigeon's coo, and sad the blackbird's lay,
And loud and high the thrushes cry, on a long bright summer's day,
And as I sat down to cry my fill, sure the tears come trickling down,
For in the morning I must leave you, my own dear native town.

Kind friends, I'll bid you all adieu; I can no longer stay.
Our big ship sails tomorrow and it's time I was away,
So fill your glasses to the brim and toast with one loud roar,
And we'll sing in praise of Springhill braes, and lovely Moneymore.


(Springhill House and Demesne outside Moneymore, plus Moneymore is surrounded by hills and wooded groves and small rolling hills).