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Shure, a little bit of heaven fell from out the sky, one day, And nestled on the ocean in a spot so far away, And when the angels found it, Shure it looked so sweet and fair, They said, "Suppose we leave it, for it looks so peaceful there." So they sprinkled it with star dust, just to make the shamrocks grow, 'Tis the only place you'll find them, no matter where you go. Then they dotted it with silver to make its lakes so grand, And when they had it finished, shure they called it Ireland.

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. "Land of song!" said the warrior bard, "Tho' all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee."

Sure 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!

Oh, Mary, this London's a wonderful sight, Wid the people here workin' by day and by night They don't sow potaties, nor barley, nor wheat, But there's gangs o' them diggin' for gold in the street— At least, when I axed them, that's what I was told, So I just took a hand at this diggin' for gold, But for all that I found there I might as well be Where the Mountains o' Mourne sweep down to the sea.