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The The Wearing Of The Green
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The Wearing of the Green
by Dion Boucicault (1820-1890)
Dion Boucicault was, despite the French surname, an Irishman born in Dublin. At the time, inspired by America's successful revolution against British rule, many Irish thought the time was ripe for independence. The color green became a symbol of sympathy for Irish independence, and the British actually began executing persons found wearing anything of the color green.
The pen, however, is mightier than the sword, and this powerful poem was the response. Napier Tandy, mentioned in the poem, was in fact a shopkeeper in Dublin who, having been identified by the British as a freedom fighter, had to flee to France. And Boucicault himself fled the country, coming to America as the words of his poem itself echo prophetic.
Boucicault did not stop writing poetry and music on his arrival in New York, ....
This is poetry of which revolution was born.
Copyright ©2002 by M. R. Franks.
Edited by the Ol'Kunnel.
(Note: As far as the Old Kunnel knows the Words and Music were written by Anonymous. Mr. Franks' history Q.E.D.)
O Paddy dear, and did you hear the news that's going round,
The Shamrock is forbid by law, to grow on Irish ground;
And Saint Patrick's day no more we'll keep, His color can't be seen,
For there's a bloody law against the wearing of the green;
I met the Napier Tandy and he took me by the hand,
And he said "How's poor auld Ireland, and how does she stand?"
She's the most distressful country, that ever you have seen,
They're hanging men and women there for wearin' of the green.
Then since the color we must wear, is England's cruel red;
Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed;
You may take the shamrock from your hat, and cast it on the sod,
But 'twill 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 summertime their verdure dare not show,
Then I will change the color I wear in my corbeen.
But till that day, plase God, I'll stick to wearin' of the green.
But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart,
Her sons, with shame and sorrow from the dear auld soil will part;
I've heard whisper of a country, that lies far beyant the say.
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.
O Erin, must we lave you, driven by the tyrant's hand,
Must we ask a mother's welcome from a strange but happier land,
Where the cruel cross of England's thraldom never shall be seen,
And where, thank God, we'll live and die, still wearin' of the green.
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This version provided by by the Ol'Kunnel himself..
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