Green fields of Ireland
Where wild young clover sprigs grow
On my father’s bones
Green fields of Ireland
Where wild young clover sprigs grow
On my father’s bones
Fields frozen in time
But who will be here next year?
Melt into history
Over bleak fields
And through all the wild hedgerows
Let your cold wind blow
These crows come and go
Across fields our fathers roamed
And follow me home
Green fields of England
Pinned together with hawthorn
My final blanket