There's not a house or window,

there's not a field or hill,

But, east or west, in foreign lands,

I'll recollect them still.

I leave my warm heart with you,

tho' my back I'm forced to turn—

Adieu to Belashanny,

and the winding banks of Erne!

[2]

No more on pleasant evenings

we'll saunter down the Mall,

When the trout is rising to the fly,

the salmon to the fall.

The boat comes straining on her net,

and heavily she creeps,

Cast off, cast off—she feels the oars,

and to her berth she sweeps;

Now fore and aft keep hauling,

and gathering up the clew,

Till a silver wave of salmon

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