Me grandaunt was a poor maid Grew up in Kildare She used to drink poitín To make her life bare Her husband, a fisherman, Lived by the sea He sailed out from New Ross But never came home Six childer raised up In a house old and damp They started to work At 13 years old Two died for the famine And one for the cold The oldest, the rebel Was sent to Ceylon So tell me oh dear Where's our pot of gold? I stumbled 'till West Clare To find there was none At the top of me lungs, Leaned out over the cliffs I shouted ye oversea "Lucky me ae!" Someone crossed the sea To work under the ground A coal mine was the lodge Where Uncle Johnny died While Tommy was sent On a far Turkish strand His young body lies now Down there in the sand Then came the Easter The Rising, the war The struggle for being A nation once more James Connolly shot While tied on a seat The Black and Tans marching Out there in our streets So tell me oh dear Where's our pot of gold? I stumbled 'till West Clare To find there was none At the top of me lungs, Leaned out over the cliffs I shouted ye oversea "Lucky me ae!" So tell me oh dear Where's our pot of gold? I stumbled 'till West Clare To find there was none At the top of me lungs, Leaned out over the cliffs I shouted ye oversea "Lucky me ae!"