From the Evening Star, March 16, 1913. Oh, Paddy dear, and did you hear The news that’s going round? The shamrock is forbid by law To grow on Irish ground. And Saint Patrick’s Day no more we’ll keep, His color can’t be seen; For there’s a bloody law against The wearin’ of the green. I met with Napper Tandy, And he took me by the hand, And he said, “How’s poor ould Ireland, And how does she stand?” She's the most distressful country That ever you have seen; They’re hanging men and women there For wearin’ of the green. Then since the color we must wear Is England’s cruel red, Sure Ireland’s sons will ne’er forget The blood that they have shed. You may take the shamrock from your hat, And cast it on the sod; But ’twill take root and flourish still, Tho’ under foot ’tis trod. When the law can stop the blades of grass From growing as they grow, And when the leaves in summertime Their verdure dare not show, Then I will change the color I wear in my corbeen; But till that day, please God, I’ll stick To wearin’ of the green. But if at last our color should Be torn from Ireland’s heart, Her sons with shame and sorrow From the dear old soil will part. I’ve heard whisper of a country That lies far beyond the say, Where rich and poor stand equal in The light of freedom’s day. Oh, Erin, must we leave you? Driven by the tyrant’s hand, Must we ask a mother’s welcome From a strange but happier land, Where the cruel cross of England’s thralldom Never shall be seen, And where, thank God, we’ll live and die Still wearin’ of the green?