A stór mo chroí, when you're far away from the home that you'll soon be leaving, it's many a time, by night and by day, that your heart will be sorely grieving. For the stranger's land may be bright and fair and rich in it's treasures golden, you'll pine I know, for the long long ago and the love that is never olden.

A stór mo chroí, in the stranger's land there is plenty of wealth and a' wailing. Whilst gems adorn the great and the grand, there are faces with the hunger paleing. When the road is dreary and hard to thread and the lights of their cities blind you, won't you turn, a stór, to your own shore, and the love that always surrounds you.

A stór mo chroí, when the evening sun over mountain and meadow is falling, won't you turn away from the throng and list, and maybe you'll hear it calling; the sound of a voice deep inside, forever simply being. A rún, mo rún, won't you come back soon to the One who always loves you.

Listen

The Concert Hall