'Tis but in vain, for nothing thrives,
Where Dermot has to do,
Ill-fortune seems, howe'er he strives,
His footsteps to pursue!
But one by one, when friends are gone,
Must I forsake him too.

O poverty! Full sure thou art
A foe the most unkind;
And weary, weary is the heart
That feels thee still behind.
But one by one, when friends are gone,
Must I forsake him too.

Next month he sails to find a home
Beyond the western tide;
And heav'n knows where he means to roam,
His houseless head to hide.
But one by one, when friends are gone,
Must I forsake him too.

Oh! Breathe it not thou passing wind,
I tell it thee alone,
My Dermot is not always, kind - 
He breaks my heart, I own,
But one by one, when friends are gone,
Must I forsake him too.