'Twas pretty to be in Ballinderry,
⁠'Twas pretty to be in Aghalee,
'Twas prettier to be in little Ram's Island,
⁠Trysting under the ivy tree!
⁠Och hone, ochone!
⁠Och hone, ochone!
For often I roved in little Ram's Island
Side by side with Phelimy Hyland,
And still he'd court me, and I'd be coy,
Though at heart I loved him, my handsome boy!

"I'm sailing," he sighed, "from Ballinderry
⁠Out and across the stormy sea,
Then if in your heart you love me, Mary,
⁠Open your arms at last to me."
⁠Och hone, ochone!
⁠Och hone, ochone!
I opened my arms - how well he knew me!
I opened my arms and took him to me,
And there, in the gloom of the groaning mast,
We kissed our first and we kissed our last!

'Twas happy to be in little Ram's Island:
⁠But now 'tis sad as sad can be;
For the ship that sailed with Phelimy Hyland
⁠Is sunk forever beneath the sea.
⁠Och hone, ochone!
⁠Och hone, ochone!
And 'tis oh! but I wear the weeping willow,
And wander alone by the lonesome billow,
And cry to him over the cruel sea,
"Phelimy Hyland, come back to me!"

I will come back," Love cried, "I will come back."
And there where he had passed lay one bright track
⁠Dreamlike and golden, as the moonlit sea,
Between the pine wood's shadow tall and black.
⁠"I will come back," Love cried — ah me!
⁠Love will come back.

He will come back. Yet, Love, I wait, I wait;
Though it is evening now, and cold and late,
⁠And I am weary watching here so long,
A pale, sad watcher at a silent gate,
⁠For Love who is so fair and swift and strong,
⁠I wait, I wait.

He will come back — come back, though he delays;
He will come back — for in old years and days
⁠He was my playmate — he will not forget,
Though he may linger long amid new ways,
⁠He wiil bring back, with barren sweet regret,
⁠Old years and days.

Hush! on the lonely hills Love comes again;
But his young feet are marked with many a stain,
⁠The golden haze has passed from his fair brow,
And round him clings the blood-red robe of pain;
⁠And it is night: O Love — Love — enter now.
⁠Remain, remain!

The curlew wheeling o'er the height
Hath touched a softer note to-night;
I hear it calling in its flight,
⁠Helen, Helen!

The sad-toned burn irom yon hillside
Sends my fond secret floating wide,
And whispers to the white-lipped tide,
⁠Helen, Helen!

The sheep are bleating on the fell,
The night-wind chimes the heather-bell,
All music moves to one sweet spell,
⁠Helen, Helen!

That spell hath sway within my breast,
And moves me to its one behest;
Oh, gird me for some goodly quest,
⁠Helen, Helen!

For brooding thought makes young hearts sore;
And I have lingered by the shore,
All weary for the passing o'er,
⁠Helen, Helen!

But life to me is not so lone,
And death to me hath darker grown,
Since on my path thy presence shone,
⁠Helen, Helen!

So 'mong the hills I dream my dream.
Under the starlight's wandering gleam,
And all around the voices seem,
⁠Helen, Helen!

The curlew now is nestled still;
The sheep are silent on the hill;
But aye the burn goes singing shrill,
⁠Helen, Helen!