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!