When I marched away to war,
How you kissed me o'er and o'er:
  Weeping, pressed me;
  Sobbing, blessed me;
Colleen, colleen oge asthore.

I was wounded, wounded sore,
Dead, your father falsely swore;
  Mad to harry
  You to marry
One with miser-gold in store.

Ah! but when you dreamed me dead,
Forth you flew a wildered maid:
  Ever grieving,
  Ever weaving
Willow, willow for your head.

"Nay, he lives," your mother said,
But you only shook your head;
  "Why deceive me?
  Ah! believe me,
Mother, mother, he is dead."

So you pined and pined away,
Till, when in the winter grey
  Home I hasted,
  Wan and wasted,
Colleen, colleen oge, you lay.

"Tis his lonesome ghost," you said,
"Come to call me to the dead;"
  "Nay, discover
  Your dear lover
Longing now at last to wed."

Then your cheek, so pale before,
With the rose of hope once more,
  Faintly, slowly,
  Brightly, wholly,
Blossomed, colleen oge asthore.

Till upon the chapel floor,
Side by side, we knelt and swore,
  Duty dearest,
  Love sincerest,
Colleen, colleen oge asthore.