Let Britain boast her British hosts,
About them all right little care we;
Not British seas nor British coasts
Can match the Man of Tipperary!
Tall is his form, his heart is warm,
His spirit light as any fairy--
His wrath is fearful as the storm
That sweeps the Hills of Tipperary!
Lead him to fight for native land,
His is no courage cold and wary;
The troops live not on earth would stand
The headlong charge of Tipperary!
Yet meet him in his cabin rude,
Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary,
You'd swear they knew no other mood
But Mirth and Love in Tipperary!
You're free to share his scanty meal,
His plighted word he'll never vary--
In vain they tried with gold and steel
To shake the Faith of Tipperary!
Soft is his _cailin's_ sunny eye,
Her mien is mild, her step is airy,
Her heart is fond, her soul is high--
Oh! she's the Pride of Tipperary!
Let Britain brag her motley rag;
We'll lift the Green more proud and airy--
Be mine the lot to bear that flag,
And head the Men of Tipperary!
Though Britain boasts her British hosts,
About them all right little care we--
Give us, to guard our native coasts,
The matchless Men of Tipperary!