Wearin' Of The Green
Wearin' of the Green
OH, Paddy dear! and did ye hear the news that’s goin’ round?
The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground!
No more St. Patrick’s day we’ll keep; his colour can’t be seen,
For there’s a cruel law against the Wearin’ o’ the Green!
I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
And he said, “How’s poor old 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.
An’ if the colour we must wear is England’s cruel red,
Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed;
Then pull the shamrock from your hat, and throw it on the sod,
An’ never fear, ’twill take root there, though under foot ’tis trod.
When law can stop the blades of grass from growin’ as they grow,
An’ when the leaves in summer time their colour dare not show,
Then I will change the colour, too, I wear in my caubeen;
But till that day, please God, I’ll stick to the Wearin’ o’ the Green.
But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart.
Her Sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old soil will part;
I've heard whisper of a country, that lies far beyond the sea.
Where, rich and poor stand equal in the light of Freedom's day.
Oh! Erin, must we leave you driven by the tyrant's hand.
Must we ask a mother's welcome from a strange, but happier land.
Where the cruel Cross of England's thralldom never shall be seen;
And where, thank God, we'll live and die still wearin' the green.
OH, Paddy dear! and did ye hear the news that’s goin’ round?
The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground!
No more St. Patrick’s day we’ll keep; his colour can’t be seen,
For there’s a cruel law against the Wearin’ o’ the Green!
I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
And he said, “How’s poor old 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.
An’ if the colour we must wear is England’s cruel red,
Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed;
Then pull the shamrock from your hat, and throw it on the sod,
An’ never fear, ’twill take root there, though under foot ’tis trod.
When law can stop the blades of grass from growin’ as they grow,
An’ when the leaves in summer time their colour dare not show,
Then I will change the colour, too, I wear in my caubeen;
But till that day, please God, I’ll stick to the Wearin’ o’ the Green.
But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart.
Her Sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old soil will part;
I've heard whisper of a country, that lies far beyond the sea.
Where, rich and poor stand equal in the light of Freedom's day.
Oh! Erin, must we leave you driven by the tyrant's hand.
Must we ask a mother's welcome from a strange, but happier land.
Where the cruel Cross of England's thralldom never shall be seen;
And where, thank God, we'll live and die still wearin' the green.