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Oh, Paddy dear, and did you hear |
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The news that's going round? |
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The shamrock is forbid by law |
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To grow on Irish ground! |
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St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep, |
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His color can't be seen, |
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For there's a bloomin' law agin' |
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The wearing of the green. |
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I met with Napper Tandy |
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And he took me by the hand, |
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And he said, "How's poor old Ireland |
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And how does she stand?" |
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"She's the most distressful country |
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That ever yet was seen; |
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They're hanging men and women there |
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For wearing of the green." |
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Then since the color we must wear |
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Is England's cruel red, |
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Sure Ireland's songs will ne'er forget |
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The blood that they have shed. |
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You may take the shamrock from your hat now, |
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Cast it on the sod, |
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But 'twill take root and flourish still, |
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Tho' under foot it's trod. |
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When the law can stop the blades of green |
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From growing as they grow, |
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And when the leaves in summertime |
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Their verdue dare not show, |
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Then I will change the color that I |
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Wear in my canteen; |
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But 'till that day, please God, I'll stick |
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To wearing of the green. |
