She wears mystic lipstick,
she wears stones and bones,
She tells myth and legend,
she sings rock and roll.
She wears chains of bondage,
she wears wings of hope,
She wears the gown of plenty,
and still it's hard to cope.

Chroi O mo chroi,
your heart is breaking,
Your eyes are red, your song is blue.
Your poets underneath the willow in despair.
They have been lovers of your sad tune,
lovers of your slow air.

She keeps fools for counsel,
she keeps the wig and gown.
The cloth and the bloddy warfare,
the stars and stripes and crown.
And still we pray for a better day now,
God willing it's for the best.
But I've just seen the harp on the penny
with a dollar on her naked breast.

Chroi O mo chroi...

And though they feed on what hurts you
To sing the book of your heart,
Oh sweeet Black Rose,
how they've loved you,
And it's hard to,
But they do, Eire, they do.

Chroi O mo chroi...

Lovers in sweet despair.