Wanderer's Shamrock Lament

In the shadow of the old stone walls, Where the wild winds whisper tales of yore, I left the fields where the shamrocks grow, Chasing dreams across the ocean's roar. The fiddle cries for the hearth I knew, And the pipes lament the paths I trod, Through stormy seas and foreign skies, My heart still beats to the beat of sod.

Oh, the green hills call me home, With their emerald arms open wide, Through the mist and the rolling foam, I'll return to where my soul resides. Oh, the green hills call me home, In the jig of joy and sorrow's rhyme, We'll dance again 'neath the Celtic dome, In the timeless pulse of our ancient time.

Years have woven silver in my hair, And the world has painted scars so deep, But in my dreams, the fairies dance there, On the cliffs where the wild Atlantic sleeps. The tin whistle sings of kith and kin, The bones they rattle with forgotten fire, From Boston streets to the Derry wind, My spirit yearns for that sweet desire.

Oh, the green hills call me home, With their emerald arms open wide, Through the mist and the rolling foam, I'll return to where my soul resides. Oh, the green hills call me home, In the jig of joy and sorrow's rhyme, We'll dance again 'neath the Celtic dome, In the timeless pulse of our ancient time.

And if the fates should turn away, Let the low whistle carry my plea, Through the veil of night to the break of day, Bring me back to the land of the free.

Oh, the green hills call me home, With their emerald arms open wide, Through the mist and the rolling foam, I'll return to where my soul resides. Oh, the green hills call me home, In the jig of joy and sorrow's rhyme, We'll dance again 'neath the Celtic dome, In the timeless pulse of our ancient time.

Oh, the green hills... call me home...