Do you ever hear the blackbird in the thorn,
Or the skylark rising warbling in the morn,
With the white mists o'er the meadows,
Or the cattle in the shadows
Of the willows by the borders of a stream?
Do you ever see old Ireland in a dream?
[A many a time, a many a time.]1

Can you see the hillsides touched with sunset gold,
And eve slow darkling down o'er field and fold,
With the aspen trees a-quiver
And the waters of the river
Running lonesome-sounding down the dusky glen?
Do you think of Irish twilights now and then?
A many a time, a many a time.

Have you seen green Ireland lifting from the sea,
Her pebbled strands that join the grassy lea,
Seen her rocky headlands rise
With their shoulders in the skies,
And the mad waves breaking foam-spent at their feet?
Do her briming tides on shores of Memory beat?
A many a time, a many a time.

Do you ever think of nighttime round the fire,
The rosy little children, their mother, and their sire,
The cross-roads and the fiddle,
With the dancers in the middle,
While the lovers woo by midnight in the lane?
For Irish love has e'er your heart been fain?
A many a time, a many a time.

Have you ever seen a weenshee leprechaun,
Or the fairies dance by starlight on the lawn?
Have you seen your fetch go by? 
Have you heard the banshee cry
In the darkness "ululu"  and "ullagone"? 
Have you ever back on fairy pinions flown? 
A many a time, a many a time.

Did you ever lift a hurl in lusty joy? 
Did you ever toss the handball, man or boy?
Light bonfires at John's eve,
Or the holly branches weave,
When Christmas brought the robins and the frost?
Has Irish laughter cheered hearts trouble-crossed?
A many a time, a many a time.

Did your mother by your cradle ever croon
For lullaby some sweet old Irish tune? 
Did an Irish love-song's art
Ever steal into your heart,
Or Irish war-chant make your pulses thrill? 
Do haunting harps yet sound from Tara's hill? 
[A many a time, a many a time.]1

Do you ever hear the war-cry of the Gael
As O'Donnell led his kernes against the Pale?
The trumpet of Red Hugh,
Or the shout of "Crom Aboo!"
As they rushed to die for Ireland long ago? 
Do their sword-blades from the ages flash and glow? 
A many a time,  a many a time.

'Tis not written that the Irish race forget, 
Though the tossing seas between them roll and fret,
Yea, the children of the Gael
Turn to far-off Innisfail
And remember her, and hope for her, and pray
That her long, long night may blossom into day,
[A many a time, a many a time.]1