All through the north as I walked forth for to view the shamrock plain I stood awhile where Nature smiles amid the rocks and streams On a matron mild I cast my eyes beneath a fertile vale And the song she sang as she walked on was, My poor old Granuaile
Her head was bare and her grey hair over her eyes hung down Her neck and waist, her hands and feet with iron chains were bound Her pensive strain and plaintive wail mingled with the evening gale And the song she sang with mournful tongue was, My poor old Granuaile
The gown she wore was bathed with gore all by a ruffian band Her lips so sweet that monarchs kissed are now grown pale and wan The tears of grief fell from her eyes, each tear as large as hail None could express the deep distress of my poor old Granuaile
Six hundred years the briny tears have flowed down from my eyes I curse the day that Henry made of me proud Albion's prize From that day down with chains I'm bound, no wonder I look pale The blood they've drained from every vein of poor old Granuaile
On her harp she leaned and thus exclaimed, My royal Brian is gone Who in his day did drive away the tyrants every one On Clontarf's plain against the Danes his faction did prepare Brave Brian Boru cut their lines in two and freed old Granuaile
With blood besmeared and bathed in tears, her harp she sweetly strung And o'er the air her mournful tune from one last chord she wrung Her voice so clear fell on my ear, at length my strength did fail I went away and this did say, God help you, Granuaile