O who, my dear Dermot

O who, my dear Dermot,

Has dar'd to deceive thee,

And what's the dishonour

This gold is to buy?

Back, back to thy tempter,

Or Norah shall leave thee,

To hide her in woods,

And in deserts to die.

O look at yon lark,

Where the sky shines so brightly,

Say why does it carol

Its echoing lay:

Is't singing so gaily

And mounting so lightly,

Because it finds gold

In the dawn of the day?

O Dermot, thy heart is

With agony swelling,

For once it was honest,

And honour its law.

An Irishman thou, and

Have bribes in thy dwelling!

Back, back, to thy tempter,

Go, Erin go Bragh!