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Come back to Erin, Mavourneen, Mavourneen, Come back, Aroon, to the land of thy birth, Come with the shamrocks and spring-time Mavourneen, And it's Killarney shall ring with our mirth. Sure, when we lent ye to beautiful England, Little we thought of the lone winter days, Little we thought of the hush of the starshine Over the mountain, the Bluffs and the Brays!

Then come back to Erin, Mavourneen, Mavourneen, Come back again to the land of thy birth Come back to Erin, Mavourneen, Mavourneen, And it's Killarney shall ring with our mirth.

There's a dear little plant that grows in our Isle, 'Twas Saint Patrick himself sure that set it, And the sun on his labour with pleasure did smile, And with dew from his eye often wet it. It shines thro' the bog, through the brake and the mire-land, And he called it the dear little Shamrock of Ireland The dear Little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock The dear Little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.

Where dear old Shannon's flowing, Where the three-leaved Shamrock grows, Where my heart is, I am going, To my little Irish rose. And the moment that I meet her, With a hug and kiss I'll greet her, For there's not a colleen sweeter, Where the river Shannon flows.