Bruce, is this THE WEARING OF THE GREEN that you wanted?

One blessing on my native Isle!
One curse upon her foes
While yet her skies above me smile
Her breeze around me blows
Now, nevermore my cheek be wet
Nor sigh, nor altered mien
Till the dark tyrant I regret
The Wearing Of The Green

Sweet land! my parents loved you well
They sleep within your breast
With theirs, for love no words can tell
My bones must never rest
And lonely must my true love stray
That was our village queen
When I am banished far away
For The Wearing Of The Green

But, Mary, dry that bitter tear
'Twould break my heart to see
And sweetly sleep my parents dear
That cannot weep for me
I'll think not of my distant tomb
Nor seas rolled wide between
But watch the hour, that yet will come
For The Wearing Of The Green

O, I care not for the thistle
And I care not for the rose
For when the cold winds whistle
Neither down nor crimson shows
But like hope to him that's friendless
Where no gaudy flower is seen
By our graves, with love that's endless
Waves our own true-hearted green

O, sure God's world was wild enough
And plentiful for all!
And ruined cabins were so stuff
To build a lordly hall
They might have let the poor man live
Yet all as lordly been
But heaven it's own good time will give
For The Wearing Of The Green

regards Mick Bracken