My Heart’s in Old Ireland.
My bark on the billow dash’d gloriously on,
And glad were the notes of the sailor-boy’s song;
Yet sad was my bosom and bursting with woe,
For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,
Oh, my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go.
More dear than the flowers that Italy yields,
Are the red-breasted daisies that spangle thy fields,
The shamrock, the hawthorn, the white blossom sloe,
For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,
Oh, my heart’s, &c.
The shores they look lovely, yet cheerless and vain,
Bloom the lilies of France, and the olives of Spain;
When I think of the fields where the wild daisies grow,
Then my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,
Oh, my heart’s, &c.
The lilies and roses abandon the plains,
Though the summer’s gone by, still the shamrock remains,
Like a friend in misfortune it blossoms o’er the snow,
For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,
Oh, my heart’s, &c.
I sigh and I vow, if e’er I get home,
No more from my dear native cottage I’ll roam;
The harp shall resound, and the goblet shall flow,
For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go,
Oh, my heart’s, &c.