| Farewell to the groves of shillelagh and shamrock
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| Farewell to the wee girls of old Ireland all 'round
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| May their hearts be as merry as ever I would wish them
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| When far, far away across the ocean I’m bound
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| Oh my father is old, and my mother is quite feeble
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| To leave their own country, it grieves their heart sore
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| Oh the tears in great drops down their cheeks, they are rolling
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| To think they must die upon some foreign shore
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| But what matters to me where my bones may be buried
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| If in peace and contentment I can spend my life
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| Oh the green fields of Canada, they daily are blooming
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| And it’s there I’ll put an end to my miseries and strife
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| So pack up your sea stores and tarry no longer
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| Ten dollars a week isn’t very bad pay
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| With no taxes or tithes to devour up your wages
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| When you’re on the green fields of America
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| The sheep run unshorn, and the land’s gone to rushes
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| The handyman is gone, and the winders of creels
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| Away across the ocean go journeyman tailors
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| And fiddlers that play out the old mountain reels
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| Farewell to the dances in homes now deserted
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| When tips struck the lightening in sparks from the floor
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| The paving and crigging of hobnails on flagstones
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| The tears of the old folk and shouts of encore
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| For the landlords and bailiffs in vile combination
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| Have forced us from hearth stone and homestead away
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| May the crowbar brigade all be doomed to damnation
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| When we’re on the green fields of America
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| And it’s now to conclude and to finish my story
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| If e’er friendless Irishmen chance my way
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| With the best in the house I will treat him and welcome
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| At home in the green fields of America |