| Bridget O’Malley, you’ve left my heart shaken
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| With a hopeless desolation, I’ll have you to know
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| It’s the wonders of adoration your quiet face has taken
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| And your beauty will haunt me, wherever I go
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| The white moon above the pale sands, the pale stars above the thorn tree
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| Are cold beside my darling, but no purer than she
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| I gaze upon the cold moon til the stars drown in the warm sea
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| And the bright eyes of my darling are never on me
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| My Sunday it is weary, my Sunday it is grey now
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| My heart is a cold thing, my heart is a stone
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| All joy is dead within me, my life has gone away now
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| Another has taken my love for his own
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| The day it is approaching when we were to be married
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| But it’s rather I would die than live only to grieve
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| Oh, meet me my darling ere the sun sets o’er the barley
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| And I’ll meet you there, on the road to Drumslieve
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| Bridget O’Malley, you’ve left my heart shaken
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| With a hopeless desolation, I’ll have you to know
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| It’s the wonders of adoration you’re quiet face has taken
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| And your beauty will haunt me, wherever I go |