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

The True Lover (by A.E. Housman). Poem 53 of A Shropshire Lad.

The True Lover

The lad came to the door at night, 

    When lovers crown their vows,

And whistled soft and out of sight

    In shadow of the boughs.

‘I shall not vex you with my face

    Henceforth, my love, for aye;

So take me in your arms a space

    Before the east is grey.

‘When I from hence away am past

   I shall not find a bride,

And you shall be the first and last

   I ever lay beside.’

She heard and went and knew not why;

   Her heart to his she laid;

Light was the air beneath the sky

   But dark under the shade.

‘Oh do you breathe, lad, that your breast

   Seems not to rise and fall,

And here upon my bosom prest

   There beats no heart at all?’

‘Oh loud, my girl, it once would knock,

   You should have felt it then;

But since for you I stopped the clock

   It never goes again.’

‘Oh lad, what is it, lad, that drips

    Wet from your neck on mine?

What is it falling on my lips,

    My lad, that tastes of brine?’

‘Oh like enough ‘tis blood, my dear,

    For when the knife has slit

The throat across from ear to ear

   ’Twill bleed because of it.’

Under the stars the air was light

   But dark below the boughs,

The still air of the speechless night,

   When lovers crown their vows.

The poem with the stressed

syllables underlined:

The lad came to the door at night, 

    When lovers crown their vows,

And whistled soft and out of sight

    In shadow of the boughs.

‘I shall not vex you with my face

    Henceforth, my love, for aye;

So take me in your arms a space

    Before the east is grey.

‘When I from hence away am past

   I shall not find a bride,

And you shall be the first and last

   I ever lay beside.’

She heard and went and knew not why;

   Her heart to his she laid;

Light was the air beneath the sky

   But dark under the shade.

‘Oh do you breathe, lad, that your breast

   Seems not to rise and fall,

And here upon my bosom prest

   There beats no heart at all?’

‘Oh loud, my girl, it once would knock,

   You should have felt it then;

But since for you I stopped the clock

   It never goes again.’

‘Oh lad, what is it, lad, that drips

    Wet from your neck on mine?

What is it falling on my lips,

    My lad, that tastes of brine?’

‘Oh like enough ‘tis blood, my dear,

    For when the knife has slit

The throat across from ear to ear

   ’Twill bleed because of it.’

Under the stars the air was light

   But dark below the boughs,

The still air of the speechless night,

   When lovers crown their vows.

   This poem is clearly inspired by folklore:

the dead lover returning to visit his living

lover. In other versions, it is a fairy,

brownie, vampire, or some other sort of

sinister supernatural being that visits the

girl. Usually, the girl cannot see clearly

the being and her danger. The Holland

Handkerchief, a popular song of the

period, has a similar theme. In this case,

the girl cannot see that her boyfriend has

killed himself by cutting his throat (due to

some disappointment with her or their

affair?) The chilling last verse cuts away

from the story just when the girl would

have no doubt let loose a terrified scream.

© C.A. MacLennan 2024