"O Paddy dear, and did ye hear the news that's goin' round?
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground!
No more Saint Patrick's Day we'll keep, his color can't be seen
For there's a cruel law ag'in the Wearin' o' the Green."
I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
And he said, "How's poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand?"
"She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,
For they're hanging men and women there for the Wearin' o' the Green."
"So if the color we must wear be England's cruel red
Let it remind us of the blood that Irishmen have shed;
And pull the shamrock from your hat, and throw it on the sod
But never fear, 'twill take root there, though underfoot 'tis trod.
When laws can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow
And when the leaves in summer-time their color dare not show,
Then I will change the color too I wear in my caubeen;
But till that day, please God, I'll stick to the Wearin' o' the Green."
2)----------------
"Tell me, tell me, Sean O'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so?"
"Hush mavoughal, hush and listen," and his face was all aglow
"I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon
With your pike upon your shoulder for the rising of the moon"
"Tell me, tell me, Sean O'Farrell, where the gatherin' is to be?"
"Near the old spot by the river, right well known to you and me"
"One more thing, the signal token?" "Whistle up the marching tune
For our pikes must be together by the rising of the moon"
| Out from many a mud-walled cabin, eyes were lookin' through the
night
Many a manly heart was throbin' for the blessed morning light
A cry arose along the river, like some banshee's mournful croon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon
All along the shining river one black mass of men was seen
And above them in the night wind floated our immortal green
Death to every foe and traitor. Onward, strike the marching tune
And hurrah me boys for freedom, it's the rising of the moon
Well they fought for dear old Ireland, and full bitter was their fate,
Oh what glorious pride and sorrow fills the name of ninety-eight.
But thank God e'en now are beating hearts in mankind's burning noon,
Who will follow in their footsteps, at the rising of the moon.
|
