My dream to some with joy will come and comes with grief to more,
As it did to me, my country, that dear old Erin’s shore;
I dreamt I stood upon a hill beside a lovely vale,
And it’s there I spied a comely maid and her name was Granuaile.

Her lovely hair hung down so fair and she was dressed in green,
I thought she was the fairest soul that e’er my eyes had seen;
As I drew near I then could hear by the pleasant morning gale,
As she went along she sang her song, saying, “I’m poor old Granuaile”.

In O’Connell’s time in ’29, we had no braver men,
They struggled hard both day and night to gain our rights again;
Still, by coercion we were bound and our sons were sent to jail,
“You need not fret, we’ll Home Rule get”, says poor old Granuaile.

I thought she had a splendid harp, by her side she let it fall,
She played the tunes called Brian Boru, Garryowen, and Tara’s Hall.
Then God save Ireland was the next, and Our Martyrs who died in jail,
“You need not fret, we’ll have freedom yet”, says poor old Granuaile.

When I wakened from my slumber and excited by my sight,
I thought it was the clear daylight, and I found that it was night;
I looked all round and could see naught but the walls of a lonely jail,
And that was the last I ever saw of poor old Granuaile.