Your hills and dales and flowery vales
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that lie near the Moorlough Shore.
Your winds that blow by borden's grove.
will I ever see you more
Where the primrose blows
and the violet grows.
Where the trout and salmon play.
With line and hook delight I took
to spend my youthful days.
Last night I went to see my love,
and to hear what she might say.
To see if she'd take pity on me,
lest I might go away.
She said, "I love an Irish lad,
and he was my only joy,
and ever since I saw his face
I've loved that soldier boy."
Perhaps your soldier lad is lost
sailing over the sea of Maine.
Or perhaps he is gone with some other lover,
you may never see him again.
Well if my Irish lad is lost,
he's the one I do adore,
and seven years I will wait for him
by the banks of the Moorlough Shore.
Farewell to Sinclaire's castle grand.
Farewell to the foggy hill.
where the linen worms like bleaching silk
and the bodies stream unstill
Near there I spent my youthful days
but alas they are no more
for cruelty has banished me
far away from the Moorlough Shore.
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