Asthoreen Bawn

The winds that blow across the sea’s from Ireland
Comes laden with the salt of Irish folk
Sure, I never see to hear them, but they whisper
«Asthoreen Bawn, when are ye' comin' home?»
And when they reach the smokin' fog of cities
And down our narrow streets and slums, they roam
To me it always seems a thousand pities
That when they’re lonely, here, they can’t go home
I do not blame the English minds not knowing
They measure ours by standards of their own
Sure, they never heard the wild word on a brown boy cry
«Asthoreen Bawn, when are ye' comin' home?»
«Asthoreen Bawn, when are ye' comin' home?»