I close my eyes and picture the emerald of the sea,
From the fishing boats at Dingle,
To the shores of Donagha -dea;
I miss the River Shannon,
And the folks at Skibbereen,
The moorlands and the meadows
With their forty shades of green.
But most of all I miss a girl in
Tipperary town.
And most of all I miss her lips,
As soft as eider-down;
Again I want to see and do
The things we've done and seen,
With the breeze as sweet as shalamar,
And there's forty shades of green.
I wish that I could spend an hour
At Dublin's churning surf,
I'd love to watch the farmers drain
The bogs and spade the turf;
To see again the thatches
Of the straw the women glean;
I'd walk from Cork to Laren to see
The forty shades of green.