The winter it has passed and the summer's come at last,
and the birds they are singing in the trees.
And their little hearts are glad, but mine is very sad,
for my true love is far away from me.
The rose upon the briar by the water's running clear
gives joy to the linnet and the bee.
Their little hearts are blessed, but mine, it's not addressed,
for my true love is absent from me.
And it's straight I will repair to the Curragh of Kildare,
for it's there I'll find tidings of my dear.
All you that are in love and cannot it remove,
I pity the pains that you endure.
For experience lets me know that your hearts are full of woe,
and a woe that no mortal can endure.
And it's straight I will repair to the Curragh of Kildare,
for it's there I'll find tidings of my dear.
And it's straight I will repair to the Curragh of Kildare,
for it's there I'll find tidings of my dear.