Long they pine in weary woe, the nobles of our land,
Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas! and banned;
Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exile's brand,
But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathleen-Ni-Houla-han!

Think her not a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen,
Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathleen;
Young is she, and fair she is, and would be crowned a queen,
Were the King's son at home here with Kathleen-Ni-Houlahan!

Sweet and mild would look her face, O none so sweet and mild,
Could she crush her foes by whom her beauty is reviled;
Woollen plaids would grace herself and robes of silk her child,
If the King's son were living here with Kathleen-Ni-Houlahan!

Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of Thrones
Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and sapless bones!
Bitter anguish wrings our souls-with heavy sighs and groans
We wait the Young Deliverer of Kathleen-Ni-Houlahan!

Let us pray to Him who holds Life's issues in his hands-
Him who formed the mighty globe, with all its thousand lands;
Girding them with seas and moutains, rivers deep, and strands,
To case a look of pity upon Kathleen-Ni-Houlahan!

He, who over sands and waves led Israel along-
He, who fed, with heavenly bread, that chosen tribe and throng-
He, who stood by Moses, when his foes were fierce and strong-
May He show forth His might in saving Kathleen-Ni-Houlahan.