|
The old home town |
|
looks the same |
|
As I step down |
|
from the train |
|
And there to meet me |
|
is my mama and papa |
|
Down the road I look |
|
and there runs Mary |
|
Hair of gold |
|
and lips like cherries |
|
It's good to touch |
|
the green, green grass of home |
|
Yes, they've all come to meet me |
|
Arm reachin' smiling sweetly |
|
It's good to touch |
|
the green, green grass of home. |
|
The old house |
|
is still standing |
|
Though the paint |
|
is cracked and dry |
|
And there's that old oak tree |
|
that I used to play on. |
|
Down the lane I'll walk |
|
with my sweet Mary |
|
Hair of gold |
|
and lips like cherries |
|
It's good to touch |
|
the green, green grass of home. |
|
Then I awake |
|
and look around me |
|
At four gray walls |
|
that surround me |
|
And I realize |
|
yes, I was only dreamin' |
|
There's a guard |
|
and there's a sad old padre |
|
Arm and arm |
|
we'll walk at daybreak |
|
Again I'll touch |
|
the green, green grass of home |
|
Yes, they'll all |
|
come to see me |
|
In the shade |
|
of that old oak tree |
|
As they lay me beneath |
|
the green, green grass of home. |