Oh, Mary this London's a wonderful sight
With the people here workin' by day and by night
They don't sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat
But there's gangs of them diggin' for gold in the street
At least when I asked them that's what I was told
So I just took a hand at this diggin' for gold
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea

I believe that when writin' a wish you expressed
As to how the fine ladies in London were dressed
Well, if you'll believe me, when asked to a ball
They don't wear no top to their dresses at all
Oh, I've seen them myself and you could not in truth
They say that if they were bound for a ball or a bath
Don't be startin' them fashions, now Mary McCree
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea

You remember young Peter O'Loughlin of course
Well, now he is here at the head of the force
I met him today, I was crossing the Strand
And he stopped the whole street with one wave of his hand
And there we stood talking of days that are gone
While the whole population of London looked on
But for all these great powers, he's wishful, like me
To be back where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea

There's beautiful girls here, oh, never you mind
With beautiful shapes nature never designed
And lovely complexions all roses and cream
But O'Loughlin remarked with regard to the same
That if at those roses you venture to sip
The colors might all come away on your lip
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waitin' for me
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea

Conamara na hÁille

Unique Word Count: 147

Maise, ’Mháirín nach iontach é Londain go fíor, 
Bíonn torann ’gus comhrá san áit seo de shíor, 
Ní chuireann siad aon fhata ná aon choirce buí,
’Gus ní fhaca siad aon ainmhí, aon bhó ná aon lao;
Tá an t-airgead fairsing ach m’anam má tá féin,
Go mb’fhearr liom bheith leatsa san áit úd i bhfad siar 
Ins an áit sin is fearr liom is a d’fheilfeadh dom’ chroí
I gConamara na háille, áit a bhfásann bláth buí.

’Gus d’iarr tú ’do litir cén chaoi ’raibh an spraoi,
Leis an fhírinne a rá bíonn sé ’ainn de ló is d’oíche.
Bíonn cailíní ag déanamh an diabhail orm féin is ar Chól, 
Iad ag rith inár dtimpeall istigh i dteach an óil;
Tá boscaí a thóigfeas do phictiúr ar phingin,
Agus tithe mór’ ithe a shásós do mhian,
Ach b’fhearr liom bheith leatsa, i gcónaí ’mo shuí
I gConamara na háille, áit a bhfásann bláth buí.

Ó tá mé ag obair ar bhildeáil an-mhór,
Is beag nach bhfeicfeá Éire óna bharr thuas a stór 
Bíonn fir ag cartadh sráideanna ar lorg an óir bhuí
Ach déarfainn nár mhór dóibh bheith ag déanamh neart guí 
Mar is mó a gheobhainn féin ag baint fhataí a ghrá
Gabh i leith anois go fóilleach ‘gus inseoidh mé duit cén fáth 
Mar ansin bheifeá agamsa, ’gus bheadh seoid agam in aon chaoi 
I gConamara na háille, áit a bhfásann bláth buí.