In the city if Chicago,
   As the evening shadows fall,
   There Are people dreaming,
   Of the hills of Donegal.
Eighteen forty - seven
Was the year it all began,
Deadly pains of hunger,
Drove a million from the land.
They journeyed not for glory,
Their motive wasn't greed,
A voyage of survival,
Across the stormy sea.
Some of them knew fortune,
Some of them knew fame,
More of them knew hardship,
And died working on the plane.
They spread throughout the nation,
They rode the railroad cars,
Brought their songs and music,
To ease their lonely hearts.