Despair in her wild eye, a daughter of Erin
Appeared on the cliff of a bleak rocky shore,
Loose in the winds flowed her dark streaming ringlets
And heedless she gazed on the dread surge’s roar,
Loud rang her harp in wild tones of despairing
The time past away with the present comparing,
And in soul-thrilling strains deeper sorrow declaring,
She sang Erin’s woes and her Emmet’s no more.

Oh, Erin, my country! your glory’s departed,
For tyrants and traitors have stabbed they heart’s core,
Thy daughters have laid in the streams of affliction,
They patriots have fled or lie stretched in their gore!
Ruthless ruffians now prowl through they hamlets forsaken—
From pale hungry orphans their last morsel have taken—
The screams of thy females no pity awaken,
Alas! my poor country, your Emmet’s no more!

Brave was his spirit, yet mild as the Brahmin,
His heart bled in anguish at the wrongs of the poor;
To relieve their hard suffering he braved every danger,
The vengeance of tyrants undauntedly bore,
Even before him the proud villiains in power
Were seen, though in ermine, in terror to cover,
But, alas! he is gone, he has fallen a young flower,
They have murdered my Emmet—young Emmet’s no more.