The winter it is past and the summers come at last
And the birds they are singing in the trees
Their little hearts are glad but mine is very sad
For my true love is far away from me.
The rose upon the brier, by the water running clear
Gives joy to the linnet and the bee
Their little hearts are blessed but mine is not at rest
For my true love is absent from me.
And its straight I will repair to the Curragh of Kildare
For its there Ill find tidings of my dear.
All you that are in love and cannot it remove
I pity the pains you endure,
For experience let me know, that your hearts are full of woe
And a woe that no mortal can endure.
And its straight I will repair to the Curragh of Kildare
For its there Ill find tidings of my dear.
Straight I will repair to the Curragh of Kildare
For its there Ill find tidings of my dear.