I've never gone to Donaghadee,
That vague far townlet by the sea;
In Donaghadee I shall never be:
Then why do I sing of Donaghadee,
That I know not in a faint degree? . . .
— Well, once a woman wrote to me
With a tender pen from Donaghadee.
" Susan", I've sung, " Pride of Kildare",
Because I'd heard of a Susan there,
The " Irish Washerwoman's" capers
I've shared for hours to midnight tapers,
And " Kitty O'Linch" has made me spin
Till dust rose high, and day broke in:
That other " Kitty, of Coleraine",
Too, set me aching in heart and brain:
While " Kathleen Mavourneen", of course, would ring
When that girl learnt to make me sing.
Then there was " Irish Molly O"
I tuned as " the fairest one I know",
And " Nancy Dawson", if I remember,
Rhymed sweet in moonlight one September.

But the damsel who once wrote so free
And tender-toned from Donaghadee,
Is a woman who has no name for me —
Moving sylph-like, mysteriously,
(For doubtless, of that sort is she)
In the pathways of her destiny;
But that is where I never shall be; —
And yet I sing of Donaghadee!
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