The Green Fields of America (Traditional Irish Song).

Farewell to the groves of shillelagh and

shamrock.

Farewell to the girls of old Ireland all round.

May their hearts be as merry as ever I’d

wish them,

When far away over the ocean I’m bound.

Oh, my father is old and my mother quite

feeble.

To leave their own country it grieves their

hearts sore.

Oh, the tears in great drops down their

cheeks are rolling,

To think they must die upon some foreign

shore.

But what matters to me where my bones

may be buried?

If in peace and contentment I can spend my

life?

Oh, the green fields of Canada, they daily

are blooming

And there I’ll find an end to my misery and

strife.

So, it’s pack up your sea stores and consider

no longer,

Ten dollars a week is not very bad pay.

With no taxes or tithes to devour your

wages,

When you’re on the green fields of

Americay.

The sheep run unshorn and the land’s gone

to rushes,

The handyman’s gone and the winders of

creels,

Away cross the ocean have gone

journeyman tailors,

And fiddlers that flaked out the old

mountain reels.

I remember a time when old Ireland once

flourished,

When lots of her tradesmen could work for

good pay,

But since our manufactories have crossed

the Atlantic

It’s now we must follow to Americay.

I’ll say now to conclude and to finish my

ditty,

If a poor friendless Irishman ever passes

my way,

To the best in my home, I will make him

right welcome,

In my house on the green fields of Americay.

The poem with the stressed

syllables underlined:

Farewell to the groves of shillelagh and

shamrock.

Farewell to the girls of old Ireland all round.

May their hearts be as merry as ever I’d

wish them,

When far away over the ocean I’m bound.

Oh, my father is old and my mother quite

feeble.

To leave their own country it grieves their

hearts sore.

Oh, the tears in great drops down their

cheeks are rolling,

To think they must die upon some foreign

shore.

But what matters to me where my bones

may be buried?

If in peace and contentment I can spend my

life?

Oh, the green fields of Canada, they daily

are blooming

And there I’ll find an end to my misery and

strife.

So, it’s pack up your sea stores and consider

no longer,

Ten dollars a week is not very bad pay.

With no taxes or tithes to devour your

wages,

When you’re on the green fields of

Americay.

The sheep run unshorn and the land’s gone

to rushes,

The handyman’s gone and the winders of

creels,

Away cross the ocean have gone

journeyman tailors,

And fiddlers that flaked out the old

mountain reels.

I remember a time when old Ireland once

flourished,

When lots of her tradesmen could work for

good pay,

But since our manufactories have crossed

the Atlantic

It’s now we must follow to Americay.

I’ll say now to conclude and to finish my

ditty,

If a poor friendless Irishman ever passes

my way,

To the best in my home, I will make him

right welcome,

In my house on the green fields of Americay.

Analysis:

It is notable that the first and third lines end

with four unaccented syllables, and the other

two end with three.

The song seems to have been sung to a fiddle

originally, judging by the ornamentation that

I have heard it sung with. It was preserved in

the Western part of Ireland, the Irish-

speaking part of the country. It seems that

that part of the country was the last to learn

this song, and thus preserved it.

It is quite melancholy, in that it is a song of

survival and success on one hand, but also a

song of loneliness and loss. The fact that it

mentions Canada makes it special for me

and connects me with my Irish ancestors. It

is almost as if I am hearing one speak in this

song.

© C.A. MacLennan 2024

You can see a video of me singing this song

at: Poetry & Folklore - YouTube