They bid me slight my Dermot dear,
For he's of low degree,
While I my lady's maid am here,
And of the quality.
But if my mother would not grieve,
And if the truth were known,
Well-pleas'd would I this castle leave,
And live for him alone.

My lady, who is very kind,
To me will sometimes call,
And talk of love with scoffing mind,
And say 'tis folly all.
Ah! Words like these are finely said,
And may my lady please,
For she her own true love has wed,
And has her heart at ease.

Oh, never slight thy Dermot dear,
Tho' he's of low degree,
For thou thy lady's maid art here,
And of the quality.
For tho' thy mother haply grieve
When first the truth were known,
She'll bid thee not thy Dermot leave,
But live fro him alone.

I sit, my love, to think on thee,
Look o'er the Shannon wide,
And fancy I thy cabin see
The lofty elms beside.
The Shannon waves run very high,
The little boat I fear;
No more at night the passage try,
For winter now is here.

There's none like thee, - the king of all,
At funeral, and at fair;
My lord's fine man, hat's in the hall,
Can ne'er with thee compare.
Thy heart is true, thy heart is warm;
And so is mine to thee;
And would my Lord but give the farm,
How happy should we be!