Neither down nor crimson shows;
But, like hope to him that’s friendless,
When no joy around is seen,
O’er our graves with love that’s endless
Blooms our own immortal green.”
The late Dion Boucicault used to sing another version in one of his plays, which he said was made over from a street ballad that he once heard in Dublin. He was not able to get all of the words and filled in what was lacking himself, as follows:
“Oh, Paddy, dear, an’ did ye hear the news that’s goin’ round?
The Shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground:
No more St. Pathrick’s Day we’ll keep, his color can’t be seen,
For there’s a bloody law agin’ the wearing of the green.