My Wild Irish Rose
Lyric and Music By Chauncey Olcott
Published 1899 by M. Whitmark

If you lis-ten, I'll sing you
a sweet lit-tle song
Of a flow-er that's
now drooped and dead,
Ye-t dear-er to me, yes,
than all of its mates,
Th-o' each holds a-loft its proud head.

'Twas giv-en to me by a girl that I know;
Since we've met, faith,
I've known no re-pose,
She is dear-er by far
than the world's bright-est star,
And I call her my wild I-rish Rose.

My wild I-rish Rose,
The sweet-est flow'r that grows,
You may search ev-'ry where,
but none can com-pare
With my wild I-rish Rose.

My wild I-rish Rose,
The dear-est flow'r that grows,
And some day for my sake,
she may let me take
the bloom from my wild I-rish Rose.-

They may sing of their ro-ses
which, by oth-er names,
Would smell ju-st as sweet-ly,
they say, But I know that my
Ro-se would nev-er con-sent
To have that sweet name ta-ken a-way.

Her glan-ces are shy
when-e'er I pa-ss by
Th-e bow-er where my true love grows,
And my one wish has been
that some day I may win
Th-e heart of my wild I-rish Rose.

My wild I-rish Rose,
The sweet-est flow'r that grows,
You may search ev-'ry where,
but none can com-pare
With my wild I-rish Rose.

My wild I-rish Rose,
The dear-est flow'r that grows,
And some day for my sake,
she may let me take
the bloom from my wild- I-rish Rose.