WITH deep affection, And recollection, I often think of   Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling around my cradle   Their magic spells. On this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder,   Sweet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters   Of the River Lee.

I've heard bells chiming Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in   Cathedral shrine, While at a glib rate Brass tongues would vibrate— But all their music   Spoke naught like thine; For memory, dwelling On each proud swelling Of the belfry knelling   Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters   Of the River Lee.

I've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's Mole in, Their thunder rolling   From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets   Of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber,   Pealing solemnly— O, the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters   Of the River Lee.

There 's a bell in Moscow, While on tower and kiosk O! In Saint Sophia   The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer From the tapering summits   Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them; But there 's an anthem   More dear to me,— 'Tis the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters   Of the River Lee.