[Verse]
Who say, "Our country's soul has fled",
They say, "Our county's heart is dead",
Come let them hear the marching tread,
Of twice five thousand hurling men.

They hold their hopes of bygone years,
They loved the past, it's smiles and it's tears,
But quivering doubts and shrinking fears,
Are far from Ireland's hurling men.

[Chorus]
Here's to the Gaelic game we love,
Each grand old hill, each parish and each grove,
The sporting skills and the sportsmen bode,
Who played our hurling game of old.

[Verse]
They sing the songs their fathers sung,
When to the breeze the green flag they flung,
They speak their sown sweet Gaelic tongue,
That fires the blood of hurling men.

When all around was dark as night,
What scarce, a gleam of cheering light,
When traitors fled their country's fight,
We still had hopes in hurling men.

[Chorus]
Here's to the Gaelic game we love,
Each grand old hill, each parish and each grove,
The sporting skills and the sportsmen bode,
Who played our hurling game of old.

[Verse]
On Irish fields where our heroes died,
The foeman thronged on every side,
Our leaders joy and our hope and pride,
With gleaming pikes and hurling men.

And if god wills, the war red train,
Shall sweep once more o'er hill and plain,
Our land shall call but not in vain,
For fighting lives of hurling men.

[Chorus]
Here's to the Gaelic game we love,
Each grand old hill, each parish and each grove,
The sporting skills and the sportsmen bode,
Who played our hurling game of old.

[Verse]
But meanwhile let each true heart toil,
The foeman's every plan to foil,
And raise like strong plants from the soil,
New hosts of Ireland's hurling men.

To guard the home and love their land,
With hope to bloom and joy to stand,
And each ones gift, a heart and hand,
Will side with Ireland's hurling men.

[Chorus]
Here's to the Gaelic game we love,
Each grand old hill, each parish and each grove,
The sporting skills and the sportsmen bode,
Who played our hurling game of old.

[Verse]
When come the day and come it must,
Where England's rule of greed and lust,
Shall lie all broken in the dust,
We still have Ireland's hurling men.

Then here's to her, the land we love,
Each grand old hill and each parish grove,
Her plains below and the skies above,
And best of all her hurling men.

[Chorus]
Here's to the Gaelic game we love,
Each grand old hill, each parish and each grove,
The sporting skills and the sportsmen bode,
Who played our hurling game of old.

[Chorus]
Here's to the Gaelic game we love,
Each grand old hill, each parish and each grove,
The sporting skills and the sportsmen bode,
Who played our hurling game of old.