The old house is still standing, though the paint is cracked and dry and there’s that old oak tree that I used to play on.
Down the lane I walk with my sweet Mary,
Hair of gold and lips like cherries.
It’s good to touch the green, green grass of home.
Spoken: Then I awake and look around me,
At these four gray walls that surround me
And I realize that I was only dreaming.
For there’s a guard and there’s a sad old padre;
Arm in arm we’ll walk at daybreak.
When again I’ll touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, they’ll all come to see me in the shade of that old oak tree
As they lay me ’neath the green, green grass of home.