The grey streets of London are greyer than the stone,
The grey streets of London where I must walk my lone,
The stony city pavements are hard to tread, alas!
My heart and feet are aching for the Irish grass.

For down the winding boreen the grass is like silk,
The wind is sweet as honey, the hedges white as milk.
Grey dust and greyer houses are here and skies like brass,
The lark is singing, soaring o'er the Irish grass.

The grey streets of London stretch out a thousand mile,
O dreary walls and windows, and never a song or smile!
Heavy with money-getting the sad grey people pass.
There's gold in drifts and shallows in the Irish grass.

God built the pleasant mountains and blest the fertile plain,
But in this sad grey London God knows I go in pain.
O brown as any amber, and clear as any glass,
The streams my heart hears calling from the Irish grass.

The grey streets of London they say are paved with gold;
I'd rather have the cowslips that two small hands could hold.
I'd give the yellow money the foolish folk amass
For the dew that's grey as silver on the Irish grass.

I think that I'll be going before I die of grief,
The wind from over the mountains will give my heart relief;
The cuckoo's calling sweetly, calling in dreams, alas!
Come home, come home, acushla, to the Irish grass.