All through the north as I walked forth for to view the shamrock plain
I stood awhile where Nature smiles amid the rocks and streams
On a matron mild I cast my eyes beneath a fertile vale
And the song she sang as she walked on was, My poor old Granuaile
Her head was bare and her grey hair over her eyes hung down
Her neck and waist, her hands and feet with iron chains were bound
Her pensive strain and plaintive wail mingled with the evening gale
And the song she sang with mournful tongue was, My poor old Granuaile
The gown she wore was bathed with gore all by a ruffian band
Her lips so sweet that monarchs kissed are now grown pale and wan
The tears of grief fell from her eyes, each tear as large as hail
None could express the deep distress of my poor old Granuaile
Six hundred years the briny tears have flowed down from my eyes
I curse the day that Henry made of me proud Albion's prize
From that day down with chains I'm bound, no wonder I look pale
The blood they've drained from every vein of poor old Granuaile
On her harp she leaned and thus exclaimed, My royal Brian is gone
Who in his day did drive away the tyrants every one
On Clontarf's plain against the Danes his faction did prepare
Brave Brian Boru cut their lines in two and freed old Granuaile
With blood besmeared and bathed in tears, her harp she sweetly strung
And o'er the air her mournful tune from one last chord she wrung
Her voice so clear fell on my ear, at length my strength did fail
I went away and this did say, God help you, Granuaile
