(I have no idea about the history of this poem. Google throws up nothing, so if anybody out there knows something about it, I would be intrigued to hear)
When the blue bells are ringing, and rowans are red,
And barley fields rustle in gold,
He tramps up the road with his quaint little load
In a spotted red handkerchief rolled —
Good old Pat,
May the feet of him never grow old!
‘Tis a comfortless bed under haystack or shed —
Aye! Or ditch-bottom once in a while! —-
But he’s up and afar at the set of the star,
And away on the road with a smile
For the sake
Of the kids in the Emerald Isle.
The pound a week earned is a poor enough wage
For his toil in the heat of the day,
But he carelessly sings like a bird in a cage
In his happy Hibernian way—
Good old Pat!
And a light heart is better than pay!
So, here’s to you, Pat, and your shocking bad hat,
And your stick with the clout at the end,
And your ragged old coat, with its lining afloat
And your trousers in need of a mend —
Bless you, Pat,
For in harvest you come as a friend.