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Now, come all of ye true sons of Erin,
Come listen a while unto me;
You'll find I'm a poor worn out creature,
Condoling here under a tree.
While the heart from my bosom was torn,
The truth unto ye I'll declare:
Young James was the flower of this island,
And he's left me in grief and despair.
Now when first I beheld that young hero,
The hills and the valleys were green;
And the leaves they were all in full blossom,
Most beautiful there to be seen.
As she sat in her lone shady bower,
Those charming sweet notes she did play;
And the blackbird and thrush joined in chorus,
With her on St. Patrick's Day.
Now my friends and my parents consulted,
And they found I was so well inclined;
False stories they told to my true love,
To banish me out of his mind.
But all that they said was a folly,
Every morning and evening I'll pray;
I'm in hopes for to meet him with pleasure,
Once more on St. Patrick's Day.
Now, young James is the flower of this island,
The same I will never deny;
And the beautiful words that he told me,
I'll never forget till I'll die.
But now he is crossing the ocean,
Every morning and evening I'll pray;
In hopes that I'll meet him with pleasure,
Once more on St. Patrick's Day.
Collected in 1951 from Cyril O'Brien of Trepassey, NL, and published in MacEdward Leach And The Songs Of Atlantic Canada © 2004 Memorial University of Newfoundland Folklore and Language Archive (MUNFLA).
A variant was collected in 1950 from Will O'Brien (b.1874/5) of Cape Broyle, NL, and published as Patrick's Day in MacEdward Leach And The Songs Of Atlantic Canada © 2004 Memorial University of Newfoundland Folklore and Language Archive (MUNFLA).
