And old man stood at a canvas, deciding what he'd paint that day,
When he was found by his grandson, who was on a brief holiday.
The old man he was distracted at the young boy's request on that day,
And tears welled up inside him when he heard his grandson say:
"Paint me a picture of Ireland, of things you remember the most:
Its mountain land, its valleys, its islands, and its coast.
Paint me a picture of Ireland, of things your mem'ry still holds—
Something to show my grandchildren, a glimpse of the green, white, and gold."
The old man he had left Ireland when the famine was still in its prime,
Leaving a dying people to survive a race against time.
He landed like millions of others in a country that opened its door,
But he never forgot his homestead, ...(?), a fam'ly and more.
"Paint me a picture of Ireland..."
Now an old man lay dying, with his grandchildren all round his bed.
He wants to tell them a story about the picture there o'er his head.
"My grandfather painted it for me when I was much younger than you.
This is where he came from, and this is where your roots are too.
"This is a picture of Ireland, of things that he talked of the most:
Its mountains and its valleys, its islands and its coast.
This is a picture of Ireland, of stories he often told.
He was so proud to be Irish, wrapped up in the green, white, and gold.
Oh, he was so proud to be Irish, wrapped up in the green, white, and gold.