I WOULD not give my Irish wife
—For all the dames of the Saxon land;
I would not give my Irish wife
—For the Queen of France's hand;
For she to me is dearer
—Than castles strong, or lands, or life.
An outlaw—so I'm near her
—To love till death my Irish wife.

O what would be this home of mine,
—A ruined, hermit-haunted place,
But for the light that nightly shines
—Upon its walls from Kathleen's face!
What comfort in a mine of gold,
—What pleasure in a royal life,
If the heart within lay dead and cold,
—If I could not wed my Irish wife?

I knew the law forbade the banns;
—I knew my king abhorred her race;
Who never bent before their clans
—Must bow before their ladies' grace.
Take all my forfeited domain,
—I cannot wage with kinsmen strife:
Take knightly gear and noble name,
—And I will keep my Irish wife.

My Irish wife has clear blue eyes,
—My heaven by day, my stars by night;
And twin-like truth and fondness lies
—Within her swelling bosom white.
My Irish wife has golden hair,
—Apollo's harp had once such strings,
Apollo's self might pause to hear
—Her bird-like carol when she sings.

I would not give my Irish wife
—For all the dames of the Saxon land;
I would not give my Irish wife
—For the Queen of France's hand;
For she to me is dearer
—Than castles strong, or lands, or life:
In death I would be near her,
—And rise beside my Irish wife.