Michael Hogan -"The Bard Of Thomond” (1828 - 1899), was not the author of this song.
He did however write his own version which is a different song, and printed in his publication.

Draherin O Machree
(Little Brother of my heart)
Lays and legends of Thomond, by Michael Hogan, Vol 1,1865, p.8
First edition 1861

I grieve when I think on the dear happy days of my youth
When all the bright dreams of this faithless world seem'd truth;
When I stray'd thro' the green wood as gay as a midsummer-bee,
In brotherly love with my Draherin O Machree.

Together we lay in the sweet-scented meadows to rest,
Together we watch'd the gay lark as he sung o'er his nest,
Together we pluck'd the red fruit of the fragrant hawtree,
And I loved as a sweet-heart my Draherin O Machree.

His form was straight as the hazel that grows in the glen,
His manners were courteous, and social, and gay among men;
His bosom was white as the lily on summer's green lea-
His God's brightest image was Draherin O Machree.

Oh! sweet were his words as the honey that falls in the night,
And his young smiling face like the May-bloom was fresh and as bright;
His eyes were like dew on the flower of the sweet apple-tree;
My heart's spring and summer was Draherin O Machree.

He went to the wars when proud England united with France,
His regiment was first in the red battle-charge to advance;
But when night drew its veil o'er the gory and life wasting fray,
Pale, bleeding and cold lay my Draherin O Machree.

Oh! if I were there I'd watch over my darling's last breath,
I'd wipe his cold brow and I'd soften his pillow of death;
I'd pour the hot tears of my heart's melting anguish o'er thee,
Oh! blossom of beauty! my Draherin O Machree.

Perhaps in his death-pangs he wish'd that his loved one was near
To clasp his cold hand, with a fond-breathing prayer and a tear!
As he he gasp'd gas all neglected, with none but his Maker to see
And pity my poor dying Draherin O Machree.

But I'm left to weep like the sorrowful bird of the night,
This earth and its pleasures no more shall afford me delight;
The dark narrow grave is the only sad refuge for me,
Since I lost my heart's darling-my Draherin O Machree.

My soul has exhausted its treasure of tears for my love,
He comes to my dreams from his home in the regions above;
I long for the hour when my grief-worn spirit is free,
To meet in those regions my Draherin O Machree.