St. Patrick’s Day

This week, Boneapart and Yulia talk about St. Patrick’s Day and share some songs celebrating the emerald isle.

Mother Machree

There’s a spot in my heart which no colleen may own
there’s a depth in my soul never sounded or known
There’s a place in my mem’ry my heart that you fill
no other can take it no one ever will

CHORUS

Oh I love the dear silver that shines in your hair
and the brow that’s all furrowed and wrinkled with care
I kiss the dear fingers so toil worn for me
Oh God bless you and keep you Mother Machree

Every sorrow or cure in the dear days gone by
was made bright by the light by the smile in your eye
like a candle the burns in the window at night
you fond love has cheered my and guided me right.

The Wearing of the Green

O Paddy dear, and did you hear the news that’s going round?
The Shamrock is forbid, by laws, to grow on Irish ground
No more St. Patrick’s day we’ll keep, his colour last be seen
For, there’s a bloody law agin the Wearing of the Green.

Oh! I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
And he says; How is Poor Auld Ireland, and does she stand?
She’s the most distressed Country that ever I have seen
For, they are hanging men and women for the Wearing of the Green.

And since the colour we must wear, is England’s cruel red,
Auld Ireland’s sons will ne’er forget the blood that they have shed.
Then take the Shamrock from your hat, and cast it on the sod
It will take root, and flourish still, tho’ under foot ’tis trod.

When the law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow.
And when the leaves, in Summer time, their verdure does not show.
Then, I will change the colour I wearin’ my cabbeen
But, till that day, please God ! I’ll stick to the Wearing of the Green.

But if, at last, her colours should be torn from Ireland’s heart
Her sons, with shame and sorrow, from the dear old soil will part
I’ve heard whispers of a Country that lies far beyond sea,
Where rich and poor stand equal, in the light of Freedom’s day.

O Erin! must we leave you driven by the tyrant’s hand
Must we ask a Mother’s blessing, in a strange but happy land
Where the cruel Cross of England’s thraldom never to be seen
But where, thank God! we’ll live and die, still Wearing of the Green.

Ireland Must be Heaven, for my Mother Came From There

I’ve often heard my daddy speak of Ireland’s lakes and dells,
The place must be like Heaven, if it’s half like what he tells;
There’s roses fair and shamrocks there, and laughing waters flow;
I have never seen that Isle of Green, But there’s one thing sure I know.

Ireland must be Heaven, for an angel came from there,
I never knew a living soul, one half as sweet or fair,
For her eyes are like the star light, And the white clouds match her hair,
Sure Ireland Must be Heaven, For My Mother Came From There.

I’ve pictured in my fondest dreams old Ireland’s vales and rills,
I see a stairway to the sky, formed by her verdant hills;
Each wave that’s in the ocean blue just loves to hug the shore,
So if Ireland isn’t Heaven, then sure, It must be right next door.