Your hills and dales and flowery vales
That lie near the Moorlough Shore.
Your winds that blow by borden's grove.
Will I ever see you more
Where the primrose blows
And the violet grows.
Where the trout and salmon play.
With my line and hook delight I took
To spend my youthful days.
Last night I went to see my love,
to hear what she might say.
To see if she'd take pity on me,
Lest I might go away.
She said, "I love that Irish lad,
And he was my only joy,
And ever since I saw his face
I have loved that soldier boy."
Perhaps your soldier lad is lost
Sailing over sea of Maine.
Or perhaps he is gone with some other one,
You may never see him again.
Well if my Irish lad is lost,
He's the one I do adore
And seven years I will wait for him
By the banks of the Moorlough Shore.
