Just twenty years ago today, I grasped my mother's hand.
She kissed and blessed her only son, going to a foreign land.
The neighbours took me from her breast and told her I must go.
Yet I could hear my mother's voice, though her words were faint and low.
Goodbye, Johnny dear, and when you're far away,
don't forget your dear old mother, far across the sea.
Write a letter now and then, and send her all you can.
And don't forget where'er you roam, that you're an Irishman.
We sailed away from Queenstown, that east deck of a farm.
A very pleasant voyage we had, and soon we're in New York.
I had plenty of friends to meet me there, and work I got next day.
But with all the hospitality, I could hear my mother say.
Goodbye, Johnny dear, when you're far away,
don't forget your dear old mother, far across the sea.
Write a letter now and then, and send her all you can.
And don't forget where'er you roam, that you're an Irishman.
One day a letter came to me, from far across the sea.
It came from dear old Ireland, it was addressed to me.
And after I had opened it, sure this is what I read.
My dear old John, I'm sorry to say, your poor old mother is dead.
Oh, goodbye, Johnny dear, and when you're far away,
don't forget your dear old mother, far across the sea.
Write a letter now and then, and send her all you can.
And don't forget where'er you roam, that you're an Irishman.
And don't forget where'er you roam, that you're an Irishman.