Where the hemlock glooms and the maple flames,
And some are tramping the old world round
For the pot of gold they have never found.
Oh, leal are the men of my heart's desire—
Their fathers were leal in the days gone by—
And their blood is blithe with the subtle fire
The purple breeds, and their hearts are high,—
Poor, and gallant, and dear to me,
With a strong hand each, and a pedigree.
Good men are bred in the East and the West,