The Green Fields Of America
Farewell to the groves of shillelagh and shamrock.
Farewell to the girls of Old Ireland all round.
May their hearts be as merry as ever I would wish them.
When far away on the ocean I'm bound.
Oh my Father is old, and my mother's quite feeble.
To leave their own country it grieves their hearts sore.
Oh the tears in great drops down their cheeks they are rolling,
To think that they must die upon a foreign shore.
But what matter 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.
It's there I'll put an end to my miseries and strife.
Then it's pack up your sea stores and tarry no longer.
Ten dollars a week isn't very bad pay.
With no taxes nor tithes to devour up your wages,
When you're on the green fields of Amerikay.
The sheep run unsheared, and the land's gone to rushes.
The handyman's gone and the winders of creels
Away cross the ocean good journeyman tailors,
And fiddlers that flaked out the old mountain reels.
But I mind the time when old Ireland was flourishing,
When lots of her tradesmen could work for good pay.
But since our manufactories have crossed the Atlantic,
It's now we must follow to Amerikay.
So now to conclude and to finish my ditty,
If ever friendless Irishman chances my way,
With the best in the house I will treat him and welcome,
At home on the green fields of Amerikay.