THE GREEN HILLS OF ERIN.
I love the golden Western sun.
And the blue of foreign skies,
But there's a color above them all
That I more dearly prize;
It covers hills and lowly vales,
And on mountain tops tis seen,
I'm not ashamed to tell its name,
'Tis old Ireland's native green.
The green hills of Erin are dear unto the view,
The green hills of Erin though old are ever new;
For beauty and for verdure, too, her like I have not seen,
The green hills of Erin, they in old Ireland's native green
What makes old Erin look so young
In the Spring And Winter time?
For surely brighter days are known
In almost every clime.
Perhaps the tears that she has shed
Through her sorrows dark and keen,
Have helped to keep old Erin young,
And refresh her hills of green.-Chorus.