Lirik Lagu Greenfields Of Amerikay - Pan Morigan
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This version of Greenfields evolved from my early hearing of the recording by the innovative Irish hand, Planxty, my study of the Paddy Tunney version, and 15 years of singing the ballad in many moods. Like all great songs, this one takes on a life of its own in every singer's mouth. I found the first line of this version in the New York City Public Library.
For my father, who emigrated from Canada
Farewell to the groves of the sweet county AntrimFarewell to the people of old Ireland all roundMay their hearts be as merry as ever I would wish themWhen far away on the ocean I'm bound
Oh my mother is old and my father is failingTo leave their own country it grieves their hearts soAh the tears in great drops down their cheeks they are rollingTo think they must die, upon a foreign shore
But what matter to me where my bones may be buriedIf in peace and contentment I can spend my lifeOh the green fields of Canada, they daily are loomingIt's there I'll put an end to my misery and strife
The sheep run unsheared, and the land's gone to rushesThe handyman's gone and the winders of creelsAway 'cross the ocean, good journeymen tailorsAnd fiddlers that flail out the old mountain reels
But I mind the time when old Ireland was flourishingWhen lots of her tradesmen could work for good payBut soon so many factories had crossed the AtlanticIt's now we must follow to Arnerikay
For my father, who emigrated from Canada
Farewell to the groves of the sweet county AntrimFarewell to the people of old Ireland all roundMay their hearts be as merry as ever I would wish themWhen far away on the ocean I'm bound
Oh my mother is old and my father is failingTo leave their own country it grieves their hearts soAh the tears in great drops down their cheeks they are rollingTo think they must die, upon a foreign shore
But what matter to me where my bones may be buriedIf in peace and contentment I can spend my lifeOh the green fields of Canada, they daily are loomingIt's there I'll put an end to my misery and strife
The sheep run unsheared, and the land's gone to rushesThe handyman's gone and the winders of creelsAway 'cross the ocean, good journeymen tailorsAnd fiddlers that flail out the old mountain reels
But I mind the time when old Ireland was flourishingWhen lots of her tradesmen could work for good payBut soon so many factories had crossed the AtlanticIt's now we must follow to Arnerikay
