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If you listen I'll sing you a sweet little song |
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Of a flower that's now droped and dead, |
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Yet dearer to me, yes than all of its mates, |
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Though each holds aloft its proud head. |
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Twas given to me by a girl that I know, |
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Since we've met, faith I've known no repose. |
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She is dearer by far than the world's brightest star, |
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And I call her my wild Irish Rose. |
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My wild Irish Rose, the sweetest flower that grows. |
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You may search everywhere, but none can compare with my wild Irish Rose. |
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My wild Irish Rose, the dearest flower that grows, |
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And some day for my sake, she may let me take the bloom from my wild Irish Rose. |
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They may sing of their roses, which by other names, |
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Would smell just as sweetly, they say. |
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But I know that my Rose would never consent |
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To have that sweet name taken away. |
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Her glances are shy when e'er I pass by |
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The bower where my true love grows, |
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And my one wish has been that some day I may win |
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The heart of my wild Irish Rose. |
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My wild Irish Rose, the sweetest flower that grows. |
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You may search everywhere, but none can compare with my wild Irish Rose. |
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My wild Irish Rose, the dearest flower that grows, |
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And some day for my sake, she may let me take the bloom from my wild Irish Rose. |
