| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
106 HYLAND'S MAMMOTH
WHERE THE GRASS GROWS GREEN.
I'm Denny Blake from County Clare,
And here, at your command, To sing a song in praise of home,
And my own native land! I've sailed to foreign counterles, And In many climes I've been. But my heart is still with Erin, Where the grass grows green. CHORUS,—I love my native country.
And tho* richer lands I've seen
Yet I can't forget Ould Ireland,
Where the grass grows green.
Poor Pat is often painted
With a ragged coat and hat; His heart and hospitality,
Have much to do with that. Let slanderers say what they will,
They cannot call him mean; Sure, a stranger's always welcome
Where the grass grows green.
I love my, etc.
He's foolish, but not vicious.
His faults I won't defend; His purse to help the orphan,
His life to serve a friend, He'll give, without a murmur—
So, his follies try and screen; For, there's noble hearts in Erin,
Where the grass grows green.
I love my, etc.
'Tis true ho has a weakness
For a drop of something pure. But that's a slight debility
That many more endure. He's fond of fun, he's witty.
Though his wit 'tis not too keen; For there's feeling hearts in Erin,
Where the grass grows green.
I love my, etc.
There's not a true-born Irishman,
Wherever he may be, But loves the little Emerald
That sparkles in the sea. May the sun of bright prosperity
Shine peaceful and serene. And bring better days to Erin,
Where the grass grows green!
For I love my, etc. |
||
|
THE DYING SOLDIER.
'Twas a glorious day, worth a warrior's telling;
Two kings had fought, and the fight was done, ■ When, amidst the shouts of victory swelling,
A soldier fell on the field he'd won. He thought of kings and royal quarrels,
And thought of glory without a smile— For what had he to do with laurels,
He was only one of the rank and file. But drawing his little cruiskeen, He drank to his pretty colleen,
"Oh! darling," said he, "if I die,
You won't be a widow, for why? Sure you would never have me, vourneen." |
||