Oh, were I at the Moss House where the birds do increase,
At the foot of Mount Leinster or some silent place,
By the streams of Bunclody where all pleasures do meet,
And all I would ask is one kiss from you sweet.

If I was in Bunclody I would think myself at home,
'Tis there I would have a sweetheart, but here I have none.
Drinking strong liqour in the height of my cheer,
Here's a health to Bunclody and the lass I love dear.

The cuckoo is a pretty bird, it sings as it flies,
It brings us good tidings and tells us no lies.
It sucks the young birds eggs to make its voice clear,
And the more it cries cuckoo, the summer draws near.

If I was a clerk and could write a good hand,
I would write my love a letter that she might understand,
For I am a young fellow that is wounded in love,
Once I lived in Bunclody but now must remove.

If I was a lark and had wings I could fly,
I would go to yon arbour where my love she does lie,
I'd proceed to you arbour where my true love does lie,
And on her fond bosom contented I would die.

'Tis why my love slights me as you may understand,
That she has a freehold and I have no land,
She has great store of riches and a large sum of gold,
And everything fitting a house to uphold.

So adieu my dear father, adieu my dear mother,
Farewell to my sister, farwell to my brother;
I am bound for America, my fortune to try,
When I think of Bunclody, I'm ready to die.

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