The Jackets Green

When I was a maiden, fair and young, by the pleasant banks of the Lee,
No bird that in the green wood sung was half so blithe and free.
My heart near beat with flying feet - no love sang me her caoin,
Till down the glen rode Sarsfield's men, and they wore the jackets green.

No hoarded wealth did my love own save the good sword that he bore,
But I loved him for his self alone and the colors bright he wore;
For, had he come in England's red to make me England's queen,
I'd roam the high, green hills instead, for the sake of Irish green.

When Sarsfield sailed away, I wept - I heard the wild "ochón".
I felt then dead like the men who slept 'neath the fields of Garryowen.
My Ireland held my Domhnall best - no wild seas rolled between
Till I would fold him to my breast, arobed in Irish green.

I saw the Shannon's purple tide roll by the Irish town,
As I stood on the bridge by Domhnall's side, when England's flag went on;
And now it glows as it seeks the skies, like a blood-red curse between.
I weep, but 'tis not the women's sighs will raise the Irish green.

O Ireland, sad thy lonely soul!  And loud beats the winter sea!
For sad and high the wild waves roll from hearts that break for thee!
Yet grief shall come to our heartless foes - their thrones in the dust be seen!
And Irish maids love none but those who wear the jackets green.