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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
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AN IRISHMAN'S TOAST.
Don't call me weak-minded, perchance I should sing
Of the dearest old spot upon earth; ', And don't think me foolish should memory bring
To my mind the dear land of my birth. With its hills and its valleys, its mountains and vales,
Of which our forefathers would boast; Of a dear little island all covered with green—
Ah! but list' and I'll give you an Irishman's toast:
Chorus.—Here's to the land of the shamrock so green, Here's to each boy and his darling colleen; Here's to the ones we love dearest and most, May God speed old Ireland—that's an Irishman's toast.
My mind's eye oft pictures my old cabin home,
Where It stood by the murmuring rill; Where my playmates and I oft together did roam
Through the castle that stood on the hill. But the stout hand of time has destroyed the old cot,
And the farm now lies barren and bare; Around the old porch there is ivy entwined,
But the birds seem to warble this toast in the air:
Here's to the land, etc.
The church and the school-house have long been replaced,
In the Harp Hotel dwells a new host; The white-haired old veteran has long been at rest,
And his wife has deserted her post. King Death, the stern reaper, has called them away,
And their children have gone o'er the seas; There is nothing but strangers around the old spot,
Still this toast seems to waft to my ears on the breeze:
Here's to the land, etc.
WHERE THE GRASS GROWS GREEN.
I'm Denny Blake, from the County Clare,
Ani here at your command, To sing a song in praise of home,
My own, my native land. I've sailed to foreign countries,
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 Erin, Where the grass grows green.
Poor Pat is often painted
With a ragged coat and hat; His heart and hospitality
Has 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 native country, 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.
1 love my native country, etc. |
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