| |
| LET Britain boast her British hosts, | |
| About them all right little care we; | |
| Not British seas nor British coasts | |
| Can match the man of Tipperary! | |
| |
| Tall is his form, his heart is warm, | 5 |
| His spirit light as any fairy,— | |
| His wrath is fearful as the storm | |
| That sweeps the hills of Tipperary! | |
| |
| Lead him to fight for native land, | |
| His is no courage cold and wary; | 10 |
| The troops live not on earth would stand | |
| The headlong charge of Tipperary! | |
| |
| Yet meet him in his cabin rude, | |
| Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary, | |
| You ’d swear they knew no other mood | 15 |
| But mirth and love in Tipperary! | |
| |
| You ’re free to share his scanty meal, | |
| His plighted word he ’ll never vary,— | |
| In vain they tried with gold and steel | |
| To shake the faith of Tipperary! | 20 |
| |
| Soft is his cailin’s sunny eye, | |
| Her mien is mild, her step is airy, | |
| Her heart is fond, her soul is high,— | |
| O, she ’s the pride of Tipperary! | |
| |
| Let Britain brag her motley rag; | 25 |
| We ’ll lift the green more proud and airy;— | |
| Be mine the lot to bear that flag, | |
| And head the men of Tipperary! | |
| |
| Though Britain boasts her British hosts, | |
| About them all right little care we,— | 30 |
| Give us, to guard our native coasts, | |
| The matchless men of Tipperary! | |
| |
