| Lone Shanakyle |
| Far, far from the isle of the holy and grand |
| Where wild oxen fatten and brave men are banned |
| All lonely and lone in a far distant land |
| Do I wander and pine for poor Éireann |
| Lonely and sad I roam far from my native home |
| Where the wild waves surging foam, headlands appearing |
| Clouded in silver spray, flashing through heaven’s bright ray |
| For thy glory and pride, lovely Éireann |
| Sweet, sweet Inis Cathaigh, the sacred, the blessed |
| Fit place for a saint or a warrior’s rest |
| Your sentinel towers left each storm repressed |
| Your mourning waves wail for my Éireann |
| There is nothing now left, holy isle, but thy name |
| The ruin of thy glory, thy grandeur, thy fame |
| For foreign laws see thy sadness and pain |
| That now cause thy anguish, my Éireann |
| Lonely and sad I roam far from my island home |
| Where the wild waves surging foam, headlands appearing |
| Clouded in silver spray, flashing through heaven’s bright ray |
| For thy glory and pride, lovely Éireann |
| How dearly I longed for to wander once more |
| To the loved ones I left at my old cabin door |
| My blessings I’d given a thousand times o’er |
| And a prayer and a tear for poor Éireann |
| Sad, sad is my fate in this weary exile |
| Dark, dark is the night cloud o’er lone Shanakyle |
| Where the murdered sleep silently pile upon pile |
| In the coffinless graves of poor Éireann |