There's a glen in old Tirconnell, there's a cottage in the glen.
Where dwelt an Irish colleen, that inspired the heart of men.
She was tall and dark and handsome, sly and graceful as the dawn.
The neighbors dearly loved their widow's daughter, Noreen Bawn.
Till one day there came a letter, where the passage paid to go.
To the land of the Missouri where the Mississippi flows.
Since she had all things ready and one morning at the dawn.
A broken-hearted mother parted with young Noreen Bawn.
Many years, the widow waited but one evening at the door.
Slowly walked a tender maiden slowly with the robes she wore.
Crying, "Mother, you don't know me. I only caught a cold."
But her scarlet drops appearing on her cheeks, the story told.
There's a graveyard in Tirconnell, where the wild flowers gently wave.
There's a gray haired mother weeping at her grave.
Crying, "Noreen, oh my Noreen, it's so lonely when you're gone.
'Twas the curse of emigration, laid you low young Noreen Bawn."
And to all you tender maidens, ponder well before you go.
From your humble homes in Ireland, what's beyond you'll never know.
What's gold or what is silver when your health and strengths are gone.
When you think of emigration, you must think of Noreen Bawn.
When you think of emigration, you must think of Noreen Bawn.