(by Thomas Osborne Davis)
Oh! The banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for Mary and me; Ther’s not in the land a lovlier tide,
And I’m sure there’s no one as fair as my bride.
She’s modest and meek, There’s a down on her cheek, And her skin is as sleek As a butterfly’s wing – Then her step would scarce show On the fresh fallen snow; And her whisper is low,
But as clear as the spring.
Oh! The banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for Mary and me; I do not know how love is happy elsewhere;
I do not know how any but lovers are there.
Oh! So green is the grass, so clear is the stream, So mild is the mist, and so rich is the beam, That beauty should ne’er to other lands roam, But make on the banks of the river its home. When, dripping with dew, The roses peep through, ‘Tis to look in at you They are growing so fast; While the scent of the flowers Must be hoarded for hours, ‘Tis poured in such showers
When my Mary goes past.
Oh! The banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, And love in a cottage for Mary and me – Oh! Mary for me – oh! Mary for me!
And ’tis little I’d sigh for the banks of the Lee!