So, my Kathleen, you're going to leave me
All alone by myself in this place,
But I'm sure that you'll never deceive me,
Oh, no, if there's truth in that face.
Though England's a beautiful country,
Full of illigant boys, oh, what then
You'll never forget your poor Terence,
You'll come back to old Ireland again.
Och, those English deceivers by nature
Though may be you'd think them sincere,
They'll say you're a sweet charming creature,
But don't you believe them, my dear;
No, Kathleen, agra! don't be minding
The flattering speeches they'd make,
Just tell them a poor lad in Ireland
Is breaking his heart for your sake.
It's a folly to keep you from going,
Though, faith, tis a mighty hard case
For, Kathleen, you know there's no knowing
When next I may see your sweet face,
And when you come back to me, Kathleen,
None the better shall I be off, then
You'll be speaking such beautiful English,
Oh, I won't know my Kathleen again.
Oh, now, where's the need of this hurry,
Don't fluster me so in this way
I forgot 'twist my grief and the flurry,
Every word I was meaning to say.
Just wait now a minute, I bid you
Can I talk if you bother me so?
Oh, Kathleen, my blessings go with you,
Ev'ry inch of the way that you go.
