England, merrie England, merry may you be,
Days of joy and sorrow I have spent with thee;
But Erin, dearest Erin, you make the tear drops start,
And often in my dreams you ease my aching heart.

England has scenery that’s both rich and rare,
And the girls of England are more than passing fair;
Through Surrey’s hills I wander, when the moon is bright,
But an Irish song comes stealing through the night.

Dearest Erin, I may forget you for a while,
But when London’s thick with fog I miss your sunny smile;
England’s full of pleasure and thrills with rapture’s toll,
And may have my body always – but Erin has my soul.

England, merrie England, one may travel far,
But Erin, dearest Erin, I love you as you are!
After death my soul shall cross the Irish sea,
For well I know that Erin will be waiting there for me.

H. H. McFall, Richmond-on-Thames, 8th February 1929

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