The Wearing of the Green

One blessing on my native isle, one curse upon her foes !
While yet her skies above me smile, her breeze around me blows :
Now, never more my cheek be wet, nor sigh nor altered mien,
Tell the dark tyrant I regret the Wearing of the Green.

Sweet land, my parents loved you well, they sleep within your breast ;
With theirs — for love no words can tell — my bones must never rest ;
And lonely must my true love stray, that was our village queen,
When I am banished far away for the Wearing of the Green.

But, Mary, dry that bitter tear 'twould break my heart to see ;
And sweetly sleep, my parents dear, that ' cannot weep for me.
I'll think not of my distant tomb, nor seas rolled wide between,
But watch the hour that yet will come for the Wearing of the Green.

O I care not for the thistle and I care not for the rose !
For when the cold winds whistle neither down nor crimson shows ;
But like hope to him that's friendless, where no gaudy
flower is seen,
By our graves, with love that's endless, waves our own truehearted Green.

O sure God's world was wide enough and plentiful for all
And ruined cabins were no stuff to build a lordly hall !
They might have let the poor man live, yet all as lordly been,
But Heaven its own good time will give for the Wearing of the Green.