| Farewell to the groves of shellelagh and shamrock
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| Farewell to the 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 away on the ocean I’m bound
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| Oh my father is old and my mother’s quite feeble
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| To leave their own country it grieves their hearts 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 a 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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| It’s there I’ll put an end to my miseries and strife.
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| Then it’s 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 Amerikay
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| The sheep run unsheered and the land’s gone to rushes
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| The handyman’s gone and the winders of creels
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| Away 'cross the ocean go journeyman tailors
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| And fiddlers that flaked out the old mountain reels
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| Ah, but I mind the time when old Ireland was flourishing
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| When lots of hard tradesmen could work for good pay
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| But since our manufacturies have crossed the Atlantic
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| It’s now we must follow to Amerikay
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| And it’s now to conclude and to finish my ditty
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| If ever friendless Irishmen chances my way
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| With the best in the house I will treat him, and welcome
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| At home on the green fields of Amerikay |