Where'er are scattered the Irish nation,
In foreign lands or on Irish ground,
In every calling and rank and station
Good men and true will be always found:
But 'midst their masses
And ranks and classes,
When noble work must be dared and done,
No heart's more ready,
No hand's more steady
Than the heart and hand of a farmer's son.
His homely garb has not fashion's graces,
But it wraps a frame that is lithe and strong;
His brawny hand may show labour's traces,
But 'tis honest toil that does no man wrong.
For generous greeting,
For social meeting,
For genial mirth or for harmless fun,
'Midst high or low men,
'Midst friend or foemen,
Oh, where's the match for a farmer's son?