Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar, A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore; From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean-mountain steep, Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep, From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand, Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand; Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you discern!-- Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks of Erne! Farewell, Coolmore,--Bundoran! and your summer crowds that run From inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic-setting sun; To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves; To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves; To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish; Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish; The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn-- And I must quit my native shore, and the winding banks of Erne! Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek, And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek; The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow, The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below; The Lough, that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green; And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between; And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern,-- For I must say adieu--adieu to the winding banks of Erne! The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day; The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks with wild flowers gay; The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn, Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the growing corn; Along the river-side they go, where I have often been, Oh, never shall I see again the happy days I've seen! A thousand chances are to one I never may return,-- Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne! Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet, And the fiddle says to boys and girls, 'Get up and shake your feet!' To 'seanachas' and wise old talk of Erin's days gone by-- Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power, And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour. The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn-- Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne!