Classic Poem

1. If you listen I'll sing you a sweet little song, Of a flower that's
now droped and dead. . . . . Yet dearer to me, yes, than all of its mates, Tho'
each holds aloft its proud head . . . . . 'Twas given to me by a girl that I
know, Since we've met, faith I've known no repose, . . . . . She is dearer by
far than the world's brightest star, And I call her my wild Irish Rose . . . . .
2. They may sing of their roses, which by other names, Would smell just as
sweetly, they say. . . . . But I know that my Rose, would never consent, To have
that sweet name taken away . . . . . Her glances are shy when e'er I pass
by, The bower. where my true love grows, . . . . . And my one wish has
been that some day I may win The heart of my wild Irish Rose . . . . .
My wild Irish Rose, . . . . . the sweetest flow'r that grows . . . . . You may
search ev'rywhere, but none can compare, With my wild Irish Rose . . . . . My
wild Irish Rose,. . . . . The dearest flow'r that grows, . . . . . And some
day for my sake, she may let me take, The bloom from my wild Irish Rose . . . . .