I met with Napper Tandy and he tuk me by the hand
And he said, ‘How’s poor ould Ireland and how does she stand?
She’s the most disthressful counthry ever yet was seen,
For they’re hangin’ men and women there for wearing of the green.’
“Oh, if the color we must wear is England’s cruel red,
Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed.
Then pull the shamrock from your hat and throw it on the sod,
Ah, never fear, ’twill take root there, though under foot ’tis trod.
When the laws can stop the blades of grass from growin’ as they grow.
And when the leaves in summer time their color dare not show,