| Dublin made me and no little town | |
| With the country closing in on its streets | |
| The cattle walking proudly on its pavements | |
| The jobbers the gombeenmen and the cheats | |
| | |
| Devouring the fair-day between them | 5 |
| A public-house to half a hundred men | |
| And the teacher, the solicitor and the bank-clerk | |
| In the hotel bar drinking for ten | |
| | |
| Dublin made me, not the secret poteen-still | |
| The raw and hungry hills of the West | 10 |
| The lean road flung over profitless bog | |
| Where only a snipe could nest | |
| | |
| Where the sea takes its tithe of every boat. | |
| Bawneen and curragh have no allegiance of mine, | |
| Nor the cute self-deceiving talkers of the South | 15 |
| Who look to the East for a sign | |
| | |
| The soft and dreary midlands with their tame canals | |
| Wallow between sea and sea, remote from adventure, | |
| And Northward a far and fortified province | |
| Crouches under the lash of arid censure | 20 |
| | |
| I disclaim all fertile meadows, all tilled land | |
| The evil that grows from it and the good, | |
| But the Dublin of old statutes, this arrogant city, | |
| Stirs proudly and secretly in my blood. | |
