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