The Irish

O mother, I am leaving, yes I'm leaving thee behind,

To find a better life where folk spend money and are kind;

For Ireland's gone begging and tis not a place for me;

The pubs are full but there is naught an open factory.

The tourists still come roaming o'er our land of mist and drips,

But, faith and Saint Tiarnach, they are stingy with their tips.

The banks won't lend a farthing to a hearty youth in need;

The constables won't let you drive if you've been at the mead.

From Cork to Londonderry there's a total lack of work,

And you couldn't earn a decent wage if you were Edmund Burke.

The leprechauns took all the gold and hid it on the sly.

I'm gone!  Just hand me one more piece of lovely onion pie.

I'll visit Uncle Brendan off in New South Wales a bit,

See if Cousin Kevin in Kamloops has made a hit.

I'll find our people in Bel Air among the movie stars

And drive one 'o them v-8, purring, monstrous-big cars.

And when I've made me fortune and have married well and all,

I'll send for you, O mother dear, and you can bring your shawl.

We'll eat off crystal plates and dip the finest snuff around,

And if the food don't suit us we will throw it on the ground.

We Irish may be poor today, but still the Blarney Stone

Will help us talk our way into another magic loan!