Mavourneen is a priceless gem,
Jewelled her robe from throat to hem,
She's crowned with a rare diadem,
Mavourneen.

Her throne is pure gold, but not fit
For one so strangely fair to sit
Upon, and yet she honours it,
Mavourneen.

Slaves every moment throng her feet
With eager eyes upraised to meet
Each least desire of hers, most sweet
Mavourneen.

But, O! she wears the plainest gown,
Her dear head never crowned a crown,
Only my heart makes her renown,
Mavourneen.

And her gold throne I spoke about
Is only built of love, without
Any possible flaw throughout,
Mavourneen.

My thoughts are born in chains, they move
All round and round her in one groove,
Living to live for her I love,
Mavourneen.