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The old home town |
|
looks the same |
|
As I step down |
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from the train |
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And there to meet me |
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is my mama and papa |
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Down the road I look |
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and there runs Mary |
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Hair of gold |
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and lips like cherries |
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It's good to touch |
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the green, green grass of home |
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Yes, they've all come to meet me |
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Arm reachin' smiling sweetly |
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It's good to touch |
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the green, green grass of home. |
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The old house |
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is still standing |
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Though the paint |
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is cracked and dry |
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And there's that old oak tree |
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that I used to play on. |
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Down the lane I'll walk |
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with my sweet Mary |
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Hair of gold |
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and lips like cherries |
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It's good to touch |
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the green, green grass of home. |
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Then I awake |
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and look around me |
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At four gray walls |
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that surround me |
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And I realize |
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yes, I was only dreamin' |
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There's a guard |
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and there's a sad old padre |
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Arm and arm |
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we'll walk at daybreak |
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Again I'll touch |
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the green, green grass of home |
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Yes, they'll all |
|
come to see me |
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In the shade |
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of that old oak tree |
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As they lay me beneath |
|
the green, green grass of home. |
