I'll praise the saints with early song,
For now the wars are ended; 
I'll praise our Lady late and long,
That has my Love defended.
Yes, home is come my Patrick dear,
From me no more to sever;
And in his looks, I see it clear:
He loves me more than ever.

He sits our evening fire beside,
The cabin round surveying,
And looks with all a father's pride,
While near the child is playing.
Even me he turns to gaze upon,
As in my maiden beauty,
Before my bloom was worn and gone
By many a toilsome duty.

And, true - his cheek is sallow now,
That once was bright and ruddy;
A fearful scar is on his brow,
The mark of battle bloody.
And oft in sleep disturb'd he seems,
While o'er him I am bending;
He makes the cross while in his dreams,
As if for life contending.

But happier hours are coming fast,
Sir Phelim - angels bless him - 
Says Patrick Toole shall rest at last,
And nothing more distress him.
He grants a farm, with turf-ground near, 
He grants a lease for ever;
And heaven will bless, I need not fear,
The honest heart's endeavour.