All through the north as I walked forth to view the shamrock plain
I stood a while where nature smiled Amid the rocks and streams
On a matron mild I fixed my eyes beneath a fertile vale
As she sang her song it was on the wrongs of poor old Granuaile.

Her head was bare and her grey hair over her eyes hung down
Her waist and neck, her hands and feet, with iron chains were bound
Her pensive strain and plaintive wail mingled with the evening gale
And the song she sung with mournful tongue was Poor Old Granuaile.

The gown she wore was stained 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 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 plains against the Danes his faction did prepare
Brave Brian Boru cut their lines in two and freed old Granuaile.

But now, alas, I must confess, avengers I have none
There’s no brave Lord to wave his sword in my defence -not one.
My enemies just when they please it blows they do assail,
The flesh they tore clean off the bones of 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 drained from every vein of poor old Granuaile.

There was a lord came from the south he wore a laurel crown
Saying ‘Grania dear, be of good cheer, no longer you’ll be bound
I am the man they call great Dan, who never yet did fail
I have got the bill for to fulfil your wishes Granuaile.’”

With blood besmeared and bathed in tears her harp she swwtly strung
And, oh, the change, her mournful air from one last chord she wrung
Her voice so clear fell on my eat, at length my strength did fail
I went away and thus did say, “God help you, Granuaile.”