| Guinness in hand, shamrocks in his eyes,
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| His pride, his heritage this Irish boy cannot hide.
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| Heart beats to the rhythm of the strumming of a paddy’s banjo,
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| His blood runs three colours: green, white and gold.
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| At night these cobbled streets I roam.
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| This sovereign state is home.
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| I know that I’ll be visiting some day,
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| I’ll stay with my mum’s aunt and uncle up Wexford way.
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| Getting merry on the ferry, the Irish Sea I’ll cross,
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| I’d travel miles to crawl the pubs and bars of New Ross.
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| At night these cobbled streets I roam.
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| This sovereign state is home.
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| I’ll hire a car and drive down to Hook Head,
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| Maybe train it to Tramore or limp to Loftushall instead.
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| Or write a song about the money and all the time I’ve spent,
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| A song about a boy of Irish descent.
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| At night these cobbled streets I roam. |
| at night these cobbled streets I roam.
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| This sovereign state is home, this sovereign state is home.
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| At night these cobbled streets I roam. |
| at night these cobbled streets I roam.
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| This sovereign state is home, this sovereign state is home.
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| At night these cobbled streets I roam. |
| at night these cobbled streets I roam.
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| This sovereign state is home, this sovereign state is home.
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| At night these cobbled streets I roam. |
| at night these cobbled streets I roam.
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| This sovereign state is home, this sovereign state is home.
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| At night these cobbled streets I roam. |
| at night these cobbled streets I roam.
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| This sovereign state is home. |