Let brain-spinning swains, in effusions fantastic,
Sing meetings by moonlight in arbour or grove;
But Patrick O'Donnelly's taste is more plastic,
All times and all seasons are fitted for love:
At Cork or Killarny, Killala or Blarney,
At fair, wake, or wedding, my passion must glow:
Fair maid, will you but trust to me,
Fondly I'll love you wherever I go.

When driving the cows of old father O'Leary,
An angel, yourself, I had still in my eye;
When digging potatoes, mud-spatter'd and weary.
O what did I think on, but you, with a sigh!
At plough, or haymaking, I'm in an odd tucking,
My bosom heaves high, though my spirits be low:
Fair maid, will you but trust to me,
Fondly I'll love you wherever I go.

When first I  'spied your sweet face, I remember,
That hot summer day, how I shiver'd for shame!
You smil'd when I met you again in December,
And then, by the Pow'rs, I was all in a flame!
Come summer, come winter, in you my thoughts center,
I doat on you, Judy, from top to he toe:
Fair maid, will you but trust to me
Fondly I'll love you wherever I go.