Written by George Cabot Lodge

Sure, afther all the winther,

An' afther all the snow,'

Tis fine to see the sunshine,'

Tis fine to feel its glow;'

Tis fine to see the buds break

On boughs that bare have been—

But best of all to Irish eyes'

Tis grand to see the green!

Sure, afther all the winther,

An' afther all the snow,'

Tis fine to hear the brooks sing

As on their way they go;'

Tis fine to hear at mornin'

The voice of robineen,

But best of all to Irish eyes'

Tis grand to see the green!

Sure, here in grim New England

The spring is always slow,

An' every bit o' green grass

Is kilt wid frost and snow;

Ah, many a heart is weary

The winther days, I ween

But oh, the joy when springtime comes

An' brings the blessed green!