My love, still I think that I see her once more,
But alas! she has left me her loss to deplore;
My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'Moore!

Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue,
Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new,
So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'Moore!

She milk'd the dun cow, that ne'er offer'd to stir;
Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her.
So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'Moore!

She sat at the door, one cold afternoon,
To hear the wind blow, and to gaze on the moon,
So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'Moore!

Oh, cold was the night wind that sigh'd round her bow'r,
It chill'd my poor Kathleen, she droop'd from that hour;
And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'Moore!

The bird of all birds that I love the best,
Is the robin, that in the churchyard builds its nest,
For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly
      o'er Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'Moore!