When I was a young lad of happy sixteen
There came to my window the Cushla-mo chree,
And the song that she sang was the song of the wind,
And the song that she sang was the song of the sea.
'And will you come with me, a vic and a stor?
And will you come with me, alanna?' she cried,
'O, my father will rage and my mother will mourn,
If I take to the mountains to march by your side.'
'O, your father must rage and your mother must sigh,
But I bid you follow and I am your queen.'

O, I stole from my window I held her so dear,
And I followed the wave of her garments of green.
My father did rage and my mother did sigh,
'Your way will be hard and your heart it will break,
Your feet will grow weary, your cheek will be pale,
If you go to the mountains for Grannia Wael's sake.'
My years waned in prison, my rough bed was hard,
When I was a freeman my blood it was cold
I met her, my true-love; I made her my wife
O, home-weary was I because I grew old!

O, the years flew in passing in peace and in rest,
And I watched my young son as he leaped and he ran,
O, proud was my heart as I dreamed me a dream,
I would wed him to fortune when he grew a man.
But when I was dreaming one eve in my chair
There came to the window the song of the sea,
The song of the mountains, the song of the wind,
And my son rose and answered, 'Who calls upon me?'
'My son, if you listen your mother will mourn,
Your father will rage, and your cheek will grow pale,
Your wife will be grieving, your child weep alone,
If you follow the singing of poor Grannia Wael.'

As he would not hear me his mother did mourn,
His child wearied for him, his wife's cheek grew pale,
He was shot without pity at dawn of the day,
And the last words he spoke were, 'God bless Grannia Wael.'
My grandchild is troubled, he calls from his sleep,
'Ah, Gran'father, Gran'father, what does she say?'
'O, little one, little one, rest you secure,
The wind on the window it calls in its play.
'O, little one, little one, hush you and sleep,
'Tis the song of the wind and the cry of the sea.'
'O, gran'father, gran'father, when may I go?
'Tis the voice of poor Grannia Wael calling to me.'

'O, your path will be rough and your prison bed hard,
Your heart will be broken, your cheek will grow pale,
You will die on the gallows when life is yet young,
If you list to the singing of old Grannia Wael.'
'My path may be rough and my prison bed hard,
But my heart will be glad and my soul shall not quail,
I shall die on the gallows with joy and with pride,
And my last breath shall whisper, ‘God bless Grannia Wael.’'