| I am a wand’ring minstrel man,
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| And Love my only theme,
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| I’ve stray’d beside the pleasant Bann,
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| And eke the Shannon’s stream;
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| I’ve pip’d and play’d to wife and maid
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| By Barrow, Suir, and Nore,
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| But never met a maiden yet
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| Like Brighidin Ban Mo Store.
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| My girl hath ringlets rich and rare,
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| By Nature’s fingers wove —
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| Loch-Carra's swan is not so fair
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| As her breast of love;
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| And when she moves, in Sunday sheen,
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| Beyond our cottage door,
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| I’d scorn the high-born Saxon queen
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| For Brighidin Ban Mo Store.
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| It is not that thy smile is sweet,
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| And soft thy voice of song —
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| It is not that thou fleest to meet
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| My comings lone and long;
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| But that doth rest beneath thy breast,
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| A heart of purest core,
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| Whose pulse is known to me alone,
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| My Brighidin Ban Mo Store! |