How sweet ‘tis in winter to sit by the hob,
Listening to the barks and the howls of a dog.
And in summer to wander the wide valleys through,
And to pluck the wild flowers in the May morning dew.

Summer is coming, and summer is here,
With the leaves all so green and the skies bright and clear.
And the birds they are singing their loved ones to boo [woo],
And the wild flowers are springing in the May morning dew.

God be with the old folk who are now dead and gone,
And likewise my fond brothers, poor Michael and John.
How they tripped through the heather, the wild hare to pursue,
And their joys, they were mingled in the May morning dew.

The house we were reared in is but a stone on a stone,
And all round the garden with weeds it has grown.
And all the kind neighbours that I ever knew,
Like the wild rose have withered in the May morning dew.