Pats Not so Black as He's Been Painted
Copyright, 1885, by Willis Woodward & Co.
Sung by the great Pat Feeney.
The Irish for ages in grief have been bowed,
Despite all the virtues with which they're endowed,
The banners are furled of which Irishmen are proud.
The harp is unstrung in silent sorrow;
Just like the chosen people we're scattered near and far,
Waiting for the twinkling of sweet freedom's star;
For though years of tyranny unconquered still we are,
And hope from the future still we borrow.
We've fought for the thistle, we fought for the rose.
We've proved a credit to the land where the shamrock grows;
And I'm proud to say, that now the whole world knows
Pat's not so black as he's been painted.
Unswerving from duty straight onward we go,
Returning a sneer and a blow for a blow.
And teaching our children the hatred of a foe,
Who never could force us to subjection;
We tight for our birthright, the land which was decreed
Should be ours for eternity in happiness or need; ''
And while we have men who are tit to tight and deed,
We'll ne'er own a foreigner's protection.-Chorus.
Our homes have been ruined, our altars disgraced,
While strangers who hate us above us are placed;
And even our language they try to have effaced,
Still it lives in the pulses "of our sireland;
They cannot wipe us out. we're too many for them still,
And though they crush and wound us,
They find they cannot kill, for we will be rebels to tyranny until
There is not a man or boy in Ireland.-Chorus.