The piper who sat on his low mossy seat,
And piped to the youngsters so shrill and so sweet;
The far distant hum of the children at play,
And the maiden's soft carol at the close of the day.

Ah! This was the music delighted my ear,
And to think of it now is so sad and so dear!
Ah! To listen at ease by my own cottage door,
To the sound of my own native village once more!

At night as I keep on the wearisome watch,
The sound of the west wind I greedily catch,
And the shores of dear Ireland then  rise to my sight,
And my own native valley, that land of delight.

Divided so far by a wide stormy main,
Shall I ever return to our valley again?
Ah! To listen at ease by my own cottage door,
To the sound of my own native village once more!