DESCRIPTION:
A homesick Irish emigrant sits on the quays in New York and thinks on his 'own native land far away'.

At the setting of the sun when my days work it was done
I took a ramble at the sea for a walk
And I being all alone I sat down upon a stone
Just to gaze on the scenes of New York.

Now, the dark and lonesome sea rolls between my love and me
For we parted there in sorrow on the quay
O, my dear, O, do not mourn for it's soon I will return
To my own native land far away.

chorus
So it's Erin, grá mo chroí, you are the dear old land to me
You're the dearest land my eyes did ever behold
And if ever I go go home, it's from you I'll never more roam
You're my own native land far away.

Now my farm of land was lost and my little cabin was tossed.
The landlord and the battering-ram held sway
O, the rain it softly falls on the crumbling cabin walls
In my own native land far away.

On a bright, bright moonlit night when the turf fire burns so bright
And the snow does gently fall on the window pane
And when St. Patricks Day draws near, we will wear the shamrock green
In our own native land far away.