How hard is my fortune, how vain my repining
The strong rope of fate for my young neck is twining
My strength is departed, my cheeks sunk and sallow
While I languish in chains in the jail of Cluan Meala

No boy in the village was ever yet milder
I could play with a child and my sport be no wilder
I could dance without tiring from morning 'till evening
And my goal ball I'd strike to the lighting of heaven

At my bed foot decaying my hurley is lying
Through the lads of the village my goal ball is flying
My horse 'mong the neighbours neglected may fallow
While this heart young and gay lies cold in Cluan Meala

Next Sunday the pattern at home will be keeping
All the lads of the village the fields will be sweeping
And the dance of fair maidens the evening will hallow
While this heart young and gay lies cold in Cluan Meala