To be Irish is to know that in the end the world will break your heart.
Whether on the scaffold high. Or on the battle-field we die Oh what matter when for Erin dear we fall.
When Erin first rose from the dark-swelling flood God blessed the green island he saw it was good. The Emerald of Europe it sparkled and shone In the ring of this world the most precious stone.
Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.
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