When [G] I was a maiden
[D] fair and young,
On the [C] pleasant
banks of [Am] Lee,
No [G] bird that in
the greenwood [Em] sung,
Was [Am] half so [C]
blithe and [Em] free.
My heart ne'er beat
with flying feet,
No love sang me his
queen,
Till down the glen rode
Sarsfield's men,
And they wore the jackets
green.
Young Donal sat on his
gallant grey
Like a king on a royal
seat,
And my heart leaped
out on his regal way
To worship at his feet.
O Love, had you come
in those colours dressed,
And wooed with a soldier's
mein
I'd have laid my head
on your throbbing breast
For the sake of your
jacket green.
No hoarded wealth did
my love own,
Save the good sword
that he bore;
But I loved him for
himself alone
And the colour bright
he wore.
For had he come in England's
red
To make me England's
queen,
I'd rove the high green
hills instead
For the sake of the
Irish green.
When William stormed
with shot and shell
At the walls of Garryowen,
In the breach of death
my Donal fell,
And he sleeps near the
Treaty Stone.
That breach the foeman
never crossed
While he swung his broadsword
keen;
But I do not weep my
darling lost,
For he fell in his jacket
green.
When Sarsfield sailed
away I wept
As I heard the wild
ochone.
I felt, then dead as
the men who slept
'Neath the fields of
Garryowen.
White Ireland held my
Donal blessed,
No wild sea rolled between,
Till I would fold him
to my breast
All robed in his Irish
green.
My soul has sobbed like
waves of woe,
That sad o'er tombstones
break,
For I buried my heart
in his grave below,
For his and for Ireland's
sake.
And I cry. "Make way
for the soldier's bride
In your halls of death,
sad queen
For I long to rest by
my true love's side
And wrapped in the folds
of green."
I saw the Shannon's
purple tide
Roll by the Irish town,
As I stood in the breach
by Donal's side
When England's flag
went down.
And now it lowers when
I seek the skies,
Like a blood red curse
between.
I weep, but 'tis not
women's sighs
Will raise our Irish
green.
Oh, Ireland, said is
thy lonely soul,
And loud beats the winter
sea,
But sadder and higher
the wild waves roll
O'er the hearts that
break for thee.
Yet grief shall come
to our heartless foes,
And their thrones in
the dust be seen,
So, Irish Maids, love
none but those
Who wear the jackets
green.
