Farewell to the groves of shillelagh and shamrock
Farewell to the wee girls of old Ireland all 'round
May their hearts be as merry as ever I would wish them
When far, far away across the ocean I'm bound
Oh my father is old, and my mother is quite feeble
To leave their own country, it grieves their heart sore
Oh the tears in great drops down their cheeks, they are rolling
To think they must die upon some foreign shore
But what matters to me where my bones may be buried
If in peace and contentment I can spend my life
Oh the green fields of Canada, they daily are blooming
And it's there I'll put an end to my miseries and strife
So pack up your sea stores and tarry no longer
Ten dollars a week isn't very bad pay
With no taxes or tithes to devour up your wages
When you're on the green fields of America
The sheep run unshorn, and the land's gone to rushes
The handyman is gone, and the winders of creels
Away across the ocean go journeyman tailors
And fiddlers that play out the old mountain reels
Farewell to the dances in homes now deserted
When tips struck the lightening in sparks from the floor
The paving and crigging of hobnails on flagstones
The tears of the old folk and shouts of encore
For the landlords and bailiffs in vile combination
Have forced us from hearth stone and homestead away
May the crowbar brigade all be doomed to damnation
When we're on the green fields of America
And it's now to conclude and to finish my story
If e'er friendless Irishmen chance my way
With the best in the house I will treat him and welcome
At home in the green fields of America
Farewell to the wee girls of old Ireland all 'round
May their hearts be as merry as ever I would wish them
When far, far away across the ocean I'm bound
Oh my father is old, and my mother is quite feeble
To leave their own country, it grieves their heart sore
Oh the tears in great drops down their cheeks, they are rolling
To think they must die upon some foreign shore
But what matters to me where my bones may be buried
If in peace and contentment I can spend my life
Oh the green fields of Canada, they daily are blooming
And it's there I'll put an end to my miseries and strife
So pack up your sea stores and tarry no longer
Ten dollars a week isn't very bad pay
With no taxes or tithes to devour up your wages
When you're on the green fields of America
The sheep run unshorn, and the land's gone to rushes
The handyman is gone, and the winders of creels
Away across the ocean go journeyman tailors
And fiddlers that play out the old mountain reels
Farewell to the dances in homes now deserted
When tips struck the lightening in sparks from the floor
The paving and crigging of hobnails on flagstones
The tears of the old folk and shouts of encore
For the landlords and bailiffs in vile combination
Have forced us from hearth stone and homestead away
May the crowbar brigade all be doomed to damnation
When we're on the green fields of America
And it's now to conclude and to finish my story
If e'er friendless Irishmen chance my way
With the best in the house I will treat him and welcome
At home in the green fields of America
Contributed by dq82 - 2015/11/11 - 13:36
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