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I've courted till I've heard the craw
 * Of honest chanticleerie, O,

Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,
 * Whan wi' my kind dearie, O.

For tho' the night were ne'er sae dark,
 * An' I were ne'er sae weary, O,

I'd meet thee on the lee rig,
 * My ain kind dearie, O.

While in this weary warld o' wae,
 * This wilderness sae drearie. O,

What mak's me blythe, an' keeps me sae?
 * 'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O.

O'er the hills of Slieve-galen, as homeward he wa
 * der'd,

The Exile of Erin oft paus'd with delight; To dear recollections his soul he surrender'd.
 * As each well-known ohject return'd to his sight.

Here was the brook oft he leap'd so light-hearted, Here was the bower where with love he first smarted And here was the old oak, where, when he departed
 * He carv'd his last farewell, 'twas Erin go bragh