Oh! Maureen, Maureen, have you forgotten
  The fond confession that you made to me, 
While round us fluttered the white bog cotton,
  And o'er us waved the wild arbutus tree? 
Like bits of sky bo-peeping through the bower,
  No sooner were your blue eyes sought than flown, 
Till white and fluttering as the cotton flower
  Your slender hand it slipped into my own.

Oh! Maureen, Maureen, do you remember
  The faithful promise that you pledged to me
The night we parted in black December
  Beneath the tempest-tossed arbutus tree,
When faster than the drops from heaven flowing,
  Your heavy tears they showered with ceaseless start, 
And wilder than the storm-wind round us blowing,
  Your bitter sobs they smote upon my heart?

Oh! Maureen, Maureen, for your love only
  I left my father and mother dear;
Within the churchyard they're lying lonely,
  Tis from their tombstone I've travelled here.
Their only son, you sent me o'er the billow,
  Ochone! though kneeling they implored me stay;
They sickened, with no child to smooth their pillow; 
  They died. Are you as dead to me as they?

Oh! Maureen, must then the love I bore you --
  Seven lonesome summers of longing trust -- 
Turn like the fortune I've [gathered]1 for you,
  Like [treacherous]2 fairy treasure, [all to]3 dust? 
But Maureen bawn asthore, your proud lips quiver;
  Into your scornful eyes the tears they start; 
Your rebel hand returns to mine for ever;
  Oh! Maureen, Maureen, never more we'll part.