Ye Gods, assist my poor recitation
Ye inspired Muses, lend me your hand,
While I bravely do make a bold endeavour
To sing the praises of these lovely lands,
Well situated in the North of Ireland
Being in the county of old Tyrone,
Near to Lough Neagh of the tranquil waters
That ancient fabric called old Arboe.

Oh, stand a while in that woody arbour
Where the purling streams they run to and fro
Where the trout and salmon are always sporting
To yield more bounty to old Arboe.
No serpents lurk in those tranquil waters
No odours poisoned infest the breeze
But peace and plenty for sons and daughters
Abound around you, oh sweet Lough Neagh

I have travelled France and I’ve travelled Flanders,
And all the countries beyond the Rhine.
But in all my raking and undertaking
Arboe your equal I ne’er did find.
My course I’ve taken by the Indian ocean
The shores of Cana and Galilee
But in all my ranging and serenading
Arboe your equal I n’er did see.