| Dusty plains and iron chains met Erin’s sons and daughters
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| Cast upon a barren land, a far off distant shore.
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| They dreamed of misty mountains in their home across the water,
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| They sang of Connemara and the home they’d see no more.
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| Now limestone walls are all that’s left of times of pain and failure,
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| This country yields the secrets of the beauty that it holds
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| And the tunes of Erin’s isle are now the music of Australia,
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| For Irish hands have woven strands of green among the gold.
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| And so beneath the Southern cross
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| They sang their songs of Ireland,
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| They sent her sons and daughters there in the hungry days of old,
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| They played their jigs and reels
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| Beneath the skies of their new homeland,
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| For Irish hands have woven strands of green among the gold.
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| Nowadays when times are hard at home,
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| Some people take a notion
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| To start a brand new life upon the far side of the globe,
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| And now they find their hearts are stranded somewhere in mid-ocean,
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| Though their days are full of sunshine and their future’s full of hope.
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| Their children sing a broken life of
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| Shearers and bush rangers,
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| They learn to play our music and to dance
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| The steps of old.
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| Though their hearts are in Australia,
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| They never will be strangers
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| To the land they left behind them,
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| They’re the green among the gold. |