I've met some folks who say that I'm a dreamer,
And I've no doubt there's truth in what they say.
But sure a body's bound to be a dreamer
When all the things he loves are far away

And precious things are dreams unto an exile;
They take him o'er the land across the sea,
Especially when it happens he's an exile
From that dear lovely Isle of Inisfree.

And when the moonlight peeps across the rooftops
Of this great city, wondrous though it be,
I scarcely feel its wonder or laughter;
I'm once again back home in Inisfree.

I wander o'er green hills, through dreamy valleys,
And find a peace no other land would know.
I hear the birds make music fit for angels,
And watch the rivers laughing as they flow.

And then into a humble shack I wander-
My dear old home-and tenderly behold
The folks I love around the turf fire gathered;
On bended knees their rosary is told.

But dreams don't last though dreams are not forgotten,
And soon I'm back to stern reality.
But though they pave the footways here with gold dust,
I still would choose my Isle of Inisfree.

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