O would I were but that sweet linnet!
That I had my apple-tree too!
Could sit all the sunny day on it,
With nothing but singing to do!
I’m weary with toiling and spinning;
And Dermot I never can see,
Nor sure am I Dermot of winning,
There’s never good luck for poor me! 
I set was my heart all the Sunday
On going to Killaloe fair,
So my father fell ill on the Monday,
And, look ye I could not be there,
And it was not the fair that I minded,
For there was I Dermot to see;
But I’m always before or behind it,
And there’s never good luck for poor me! 
I tried with my sweetest behaviour
To tell our good priest my distress;
And ask’d him to speak in my favour,
When Dermot came next to confess.
But he said I was but a beginner,
And from love and temptation must flee!
So if love will but make me a sinner,
There’s never good luck for poor me! 
Ye Saints, with the Virgin! Believe me,
I join with the priest in your praise!
Contrive but my Dermot to give me,
And I’ll love you the length of my days.
In vain would they bid me be wiser,
And never my Dermot to see,
Bad luck to advice and adviser!
Good luck! To dear Dermot and me!