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| ALL ye who love the springtime—and who but loves it well | |
| When the little birds do sing, and the buds begin to swell!— | |
| Think not ye ken its beauty, or know its face so dear, | |
| Till ye look upon old Ireland, in the dawning o’ the year! | |
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| For where in all the earth is there any joy like this, | 5 |
| When the skylark sings and soars like a spirit into bliss, | |
| While the thrushes in the bush strain their small brown mottled throats, | |
| Making all the air rejoice with their clear and mellow notes; | |
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| And the blackbird on the hedge in the golden sunset glow | |
| Trills with saucy, side-tipped head to the bonny nest below; | 10 |
| And the dancing wind slips down through the leaves of the boreen, | |
| And all the world rejoices in the wearing o’ the green! | |
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| For ’t is green, green, green, where the ruined towers are gray, | |
| And it ’s green, green, green, all the happy night and day; | |
| Green of leaf and green of sod, green of ivy on the wall, | 15 |
| And the blessed Irish shamrock with the fairest green of all. | |
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| There the primrose breath is sweet, and the yellow gorse is set | |
| A crown of shining gold on the headlands brown and wet; | |
| Not a nook of all the land but the daisies make to glow, | |
| And the happy violets pray in their hidden cells below. | 20 |
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| And it ’s there the earth is merry, like a young thing newly made | |
| Running wild amid the blossoms in the field and in the glade, | |
| Babbling ever into music under skies with soft clouds piled, | |
| Like the laughter and the tears in the blue eyes of a child. | |
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| But the green, green, green, O ’t is that is blithe and fair! | 25 |
| In the fells and on the hills, gay and gladsome as the air, | |
| Lying warm above the bog, floating brave on crag and glen, | |
| Thrusting forty banners high where another land has ten. | |
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| Sure Mother Nature knows of her sore and heavy grief, | |
| And thus with soft caress would give solace and relief; | 30 |
| Would fold her close in loveliness to keep her from the cold, | |
| And clasp the mantle o’er her heart with emeralds and gold. | |
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| So ye who love the springtime,—and who but loves it well | |
| When the little birds do sing, and the buds begin to swell!— | |
| Think not ye ken its beauty or know its face so dear | 35 |
| Till ye meet it in old Ireland in the dawning o’ the year! | |
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