We are alone in this cursed land, left to die like starving dogs.
Our crops have failed us yet again; nothing grows in this desolate bog.
I hold my daughter in my arms. She is too weak to stand or walk.
Her face is gaunt, her belly empty; she cannot see, she cannot talk.

What money I had has all been spent, on bread and milk and bloody rent.
They take from us all that we have, these [bad word] that from [bad word] were sent.
My wife is dead. My home is lost, all around me dead and dying.
I grip my child, I hold her tight. I must go on, I must keep trying.

To the harbour is where I plan to go, to escape the land I love so dear.
The English are [bad word] here. They eat their fill. The have no fear.
I look to the heavens and shout aloud “What has poor Ireland done?”
The world looks on and sees us starve, dying one by one.

My strength has failed, I can’t go on. Beside my daughter I lay.
Some bread or corn could save her life. All I can do is pray.
I hold her hand and wipe a tear as I watch a new day dawn.
My daughter seems so peaceful now; to heaven she is gone.