| We packed our few belongings and we moved across the ocean
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| To start a new life in this land so bold and vast
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| Dispersed from Ellis Island, my distant Irish kin
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| Eyes cut to the future, heart’s tied to the past
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| We held tight to our loved ones and we held on to the promise
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| And we scraped our meager living hand to mouth
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| We prayed to what would have us, every doubting John Thomas
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| Spreading through the Appalachia ever south
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| Spread through Appalachia ever south
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| And I hear we weren’t welcomed here, at least not in those days
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| No one needs our drunken, fighting, thieving kind
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| But we settled in this new place and we worked it in our ways
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| And spread our kin upon it in due time
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| Spread our kin upon it in due time
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| And we fought our losing battles and we held onto our ways
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| And we talk of how we left behind our better days
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| Some were living lives of leisure, some surviving hand to mouth
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| Bash our heads against the future, ever south
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| Bash our heads against the future ever south
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| When I set my sights upon you, we were both still in our prime
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| We were moving in big circles that I sought out to combine
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| And I held you in my arms and swore eternal love this time
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| Tried to lasso brighter futures and let it drag us both behind
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| Lasso brighter futures, let it drag us both behind
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| So we aimed our sights westward like so many did before
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| Expanding our horizons to some distant shore
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| Where everyone takes notice of the drawl that leaves our mouth
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| So that no matter where we are we’re ever south
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| No matter where we are we’re ever south
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| Now my Christian Southern brethren will tell you all what for
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| To keep your heathen ways up in you and your shoes outside the door
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| Take your stand for noble causes till you just can’t stand no more
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| And surrender to some savior, Praise the Lord
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| Surrender to some savior, Praise the Lord
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| But despite our best intentions, it pains me to report
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| We keep swinging for the fences, coming up a little short
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| We sure can get it wrong for someone so devout
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| I hear you whistling past the graveyard looking down
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| Whistling past the graveyard looking down
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| Ever Southern in my carriage, ever southern in my stance
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| In the Irish of my complexion and the Scottish in my dance
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| In the way I bang my head against my daily circumstance
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| Let this blue eyed southern devil take you out upon the prowl
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| With decadence and charm we’ll take it into town
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| Tell you stories of our fathers and the glories of our house
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| Always told a little slower, ever south |