They say there's bread and work for all,
 And the sun shines always there—
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
 Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
 I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
 To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
 Where we sat side by side:
And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,
 When first you were my bride.

 I DO not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!
And yet when thou art absent I am sad;
 And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,
Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

 I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,
Whatever thou dost seems still well done, to me:
 And often in my solitude I sigh
That those I do love are not more like thee!

 I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,
I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear)
 Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone
Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.