Where the Grass Grows Green

E. NASON & CO. SONG PUBLISHERS, 120 Fulton Street, New York.

Where the Grass Grows Green

I’m Denny Blake from the Country Clare,
And here, at your command,
To sing a song in praise of home,
My own, my native land!
I’ve sailed to foreign countries,
And in many climes I’ve been,
But my heart is still with Erin,
Where the grass grows green.

Poor Pat is often painted
With a ragged coat and hat—
His heart and hospitality
Has much to do with that.
Let slanderers say what they will,
They cannot call him mean—
Sure a stranger’s always welcome,
Where the grass grows green.—

He’s foolish, but not vicious,
His faults I won’t defend;
His purse to help the orphan,
His life to serve a friend,
He’ll give without a murmur,
So his follies try and screen,
For there’s noble hearts in Erin,
Where the grass grows green.—

’Tis true he has a weakness
For a drop of something pure,
But that’s a slight debility
That many more endure
He’s fond of fun, he’s witty,
Though his wit ’tis not too keen,
For there’s feeling hearts in Erin,
Where the grass grows green.—

There’s not a true born Irishman,
Wherever he may be,
But loves the little Emerald
That sparkles on the sea.
May the sun of bright prosperity
Shine peaceful and serene,
And bring better days to Erin,
Where the grass grows green!—

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