Brighidin Ban mo Stor

I am a wandering minstrel man,
And Love my only theme,
I've strayed beside the pleasant Bann,
And eke the Shannon's stream ;
I've piped and played to wife and maid
By Barrow, Suir, and Nore,
But never met a maiden yet
Like Brighidin ban mo stoir.

My girl hath ringlets rich and rare,
By Nature's fingers wove —
Loch-Carra's swan is not so fair
As is her breast of love ;
And when she moves, in Sunday sheen,,
Beyond our cottage door,
I'd scorn the high-born Saxon queen
For Brighidin ban mo stoir.

It is not that thy smile is sweet,
And soft thy voice of song —
It is not that thou fliest to meet
My comings lone and long !
But that doth rest beneath thy breast
A heart of purest core,
Whose pulse is known to me alone,
Brighidin ban mo stoir.