The Blackbird of Avondale

By the bright bay of Dublin while carelessly strolling,
I sat myself down by a clear crystal stream,
Reclined on the beach where the wild waves were rolling;
In sorrow condoling I spied a fair maid.

Her robes changed to mourning that once were so glorious.
I stood in amazement to hear her sad tale.
Her heart-strings burst forth in wild accents imploring,
Saying, Where is my blackbird of sweet Avondale?

To the fair counties Meath, Kerry, Cork and Tipperary,
The notes of his country my blackbird would sing,
But woe to the hour when we'd part light and airy:
He flew from my arms in Dublin to Queens.

Now the birds in the forest for me have no charm,
Not even the voice of the sweet nightingale:
Her notes full of charm fills my heart with alarm
Since I lost my poor blackbird of sweet Avondale.