Dreams to some come very true, and come with grief to more
So it came to me of my country, my dear old Erin's shore;
I dreamed I was upon a hill beside a lovely vale
It was there I spied that charming maid, and her name was Granuaile

I hastened on my footsteps to see which road she went
Still thinking that my wearied limbs might gather up some strength;
As I drew near I then could hear in the pleasant morning gale
As she moved along she sang a song, "I am poor old Granuaile."

I boldly stepped up to her, and this to her did say:
"Are you fallen from the heavens, or what brought you this way?"
Then with a sigh she made reply, "My sons all lie in gaol,
They're suffering for the love they bore for poor old Granuaile."

I thought she had a splendid harp, by her side she let it fall,
It played the tune of "Brian Boru", "Garryowen", and "Tara's Hall",
Then "God Save Ireland" was the next, and "Our Martyrs died in Gaol";
And that was the last I ever saw of poor old Granuaile.