Song composed about an Irishman.
The savage loves his native shore,
though rude the soil and chill the air.
Then well may Erin’s sons adore, their isle which nature formed so fair.
What floods reflects a shore so sweet, as Shannon’s great or pastoral Bann.
Or who a friend or foe can meet, so generous as an Irishman.
His hand is harsh, his heart is warm, but honesty is still his guide, none more repents a deed of harm,
And none forgives with nobler pride.
He may be jubed, but wont be dared,
more fit to practise than to plan,
he dearly earns his poor reward, and spends it like an Irishman.
If strange or poor, for you he’ll pay,
and guide to where you safe may be
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