Were I the King of Ireland and had all things at my will,
I would roam for recreation, new comforts to find still,
But the comfort I would look for, you all may understand
Is to win the heart of Martha, she's the Flower of Sweet Strabane.

Her cheeks are like the roses red, her hair a lovely brown,
And o'er her milk-white shoulders in ringlets it hangs down,
She's one of the fairest creatures in the whole Milesian clan,
And my heart lies captivated by the Flower of Sweet Strabane.

I've often been in Phoenix Park and in Killarney fair,
In blithe and bonny Scotland, on the winding banks of Ayr;
But yet in all my travelling I never met that one
That could compare with Martha, the Flower of Sweet Strabane.

But since I cannot win her love no joy there is for me,
So I will seek forgetfulness in lands across the sea,
And unless you chance to follow me, I swear by my right hand,
MacDonald's face you'll never see, fair Flower of Sweet Strabane.

Farewell to bonny Lifford and Mourne's water side,
For now I'm for America whatever may betide;
Sailing down Lough Foyle, brave boys, I'll sadly wave my hand,
And I'll bid Adieu, to Martha, the Flower of Sweet Strabane.