My name is Patrick Sheehan, and my years are thirty-four. Tipperary is my native place, not far from Galtymore. I came of honest parents, but now they're lying low. Though many's the pleasant days we spent in the Glen of Aherlow. My father died; I closed his eyes outside the cabin door. For the landlord and the sheriff too were there the day before. And then my loving mother and my sisters three also. Were forced to go with broken hearts from the Glen of Aherlow. For three long months, in search of work, I wandered far and near. I then went to the poorhouse to see my mother dear. The news I heard near broke my heart, but still in all my woe. I blessed the friends who made their graves in the Glen of Aherlow.