Brian Dillon lyrics
Irish Folk Song 1830-1872, a leader of The Fenians in Co. Cork. the writer remains unknown as with lots of the rebel songs of the time. For more information on Brian Dillon go here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brian_Dillon
Oh tell me dear Mary and why do you stray, Alone o'er the hills on this cold winter's day. 'Tis better by far near your own kitchen fire, Than wander thus over the heights of Glanmire.
I mind not the winter's winds how they blow, There's a grave in Rathcooney to which I will ga. There's a grave in Rathcooney beneath a tall tree, A lone grave, a loved grave, a dear grave to me.
In that grave in Rathcooney beside a stone wall, Though no lover lies there, ah! I loved him withal, For there all alone where no cares can annoy, Lies dear Brian Dillon, the Bold Fenian Boy.
Lies young Brian Dillon, the brave and the good, Who fought the foul Sasanach below in the wood. Oh! I honour and love them and pray for also Those brave Fenian men who fought long ago.
Kind-hearted, undaunted, high thoughtful of mind, You never met Fenian men mean or unkind. Ah! where will poor Ireland again see the likes Of those high hearted rebels who carried the pikes.
When round in the churchyard the snow may be seen, And the pines in Rathcooney are waving and green. And the wheat fields are golden in sorrow and joy, Come visit the grave of the dear Fenian Boy.
Who lacks his proud spirit, who thinks that no more Will the high hope of Freedom beat strong as before. That Ireland's unworthy her right to enjoy
Come visit the grave of that dear Fenian Boy.
I mind not the winter's winds how they blow, There's a grave in Rathcooney to which I will ga. There's a grave in Rathcooney beneath a tall tree, A lone grave, a loved grave, a dear grave to me.
In that grave in Rathcooney beside a stone wall, Though no lover lies there, ah! I loved him withal, For there all alone where no cares can annoy, Lies dear Brian Dillon, the Bold Fenian Boy.
Lies young Brian Dillon, the brave and the good, Who fought the foul Sasanach below in the wood. Oh! I honour and love them and pray for also Those brave Fenian men who fought long ago.
Kind-hearted, undaunted, high thoughtful of mind, You never met Fenian men mean or unkind. Ah! where will poor Ireland again see the likes Of those high hearted rebels who carried the pikes.
When round in the churchyard the snow may be seen, And the pines in Rathcooney are waving and green. And the wheat fields are golden in sorrow and joy, Come visit the grave of the dear Fenian Boy.
Who lacks his proud spirit, who thinks that no more Will the high hope of Freedom beat strong as before. That Ireland's unworthy her right to enjoy
Come visit the grave of that dear Fenian Boy.
The following comes from Tomas.
I found the original of that song a few years back in a newspaper at the time, and the Fenian mentioned in the song was Con O'Driscoll, and not Brian Dillion.
Unfortunately I don't have any other references. Also attached is a song Brian Dillion wrote himself about John Lynch, who was a Fenian from Cork who died in prison.
I found the original of that song a few years back in a newspaper at the time, and the Fenian mentioned in the song was Con O'Driscoll, and not Brian Dillion.
Unfortunately I don't have any other references. Also attached is a song Brian Dillion wrote himself about John Lynch, who was a Fenian from Cork who died in prison.
The Fenian Grave
By: David O’ Connor – Dec 1894
“Oh, tell me, dear Mary, and why do you stray
Alone o’er the hills on this cold winter day?
‘Tis pleasanter far by your own kitchen fire,
Than to wander thus over the heights of Glanmire.”
“I mind not the winter wind how it may blow,
There’s a grave in Rathcooney to which I will go,
There’s a grave in Rathcooney beneath the tall tree,
There’s a grave in Rathcooney, a dear grave to me.”
“In that grave in Rathcooney your love lies asleep,
And you go o’er his ashes to pray and to weep;
Sad, sad for you, Mary, but death never spares,
And life for the living is planted with cares.”
“There’s a grave in Rathcooney beside the stone wall,
Though no lover lies there, ah, I love him withal,
For there all alone, where no cares can annoy,
Lies young Con O’ Driscol, the dear Fenian boy.”
“Lies young Con O’ Driscol, the brave and the good,
Whom the Sassenachs murdered below in the wood;
Oh, I honour and love them, and pray for, also.
Those brave Fenian boys that came out in the snow.”
“King-hearted, undaunted, high-thoughted of mind,
You never met Fenian boy mean or unkind;
Oh, when shall poor Ireland again see the like
Of the high-hearted rebels who carried the pike?
“When round in the church yard the snow may be seen,
When the pines in Rathcooney are waving in green,
When the wheat fields are yellow – in sorrow and joy
I will visit the grave of the dear Fenian boy.”
“True, true for you, Mary, but much I’m afraid
There’s small hope for the country that mocked and betrayed,
That flung the coarse libel, the pledged word that broke,
And did the foul deed that the Sassenach spoke.
“Foul, foul was the action, most foul and most base,
And for Ireland has proved a full pitiful case;
But knaves will be craven, and good men and true,
Must suffer and labour their crimes to undo.
“But hark to those voices that sing in the night!
‘Tis the dead Fenian boys urging on to the fight.
Do you think when the moment is ripe for the call
That the dead Fenian boys are worth nothing at all?
“Who lacks his proud spirit – who fears that no more
Will the high hopes for Freedom beat strong as before,
That Ireland’s unworthy her rights to enjoy?
Come – visit the grave of a bold Fenian boy.”
On hearing a robin sing
Brian Dillion – Woking Prison, near London.
When twilight darkened into night
Throws round my cell its somber shade,
And thronging memories sad or bright
Slowly come and slowly fade;
Then sweetly thro’ my prison bars
An old friend sings a song to me –
An old song from far-off times
Of youth and home and liberty.
Sing, Robin Redbreast, sing,
While listening to thy minstrelsy
Thro’ prison bars my soul will wing
To Ireland over the sea.
To boyhood’s happy, happy days,
To life’s flower-crowned morn,
Thro’ wood and glen of Ballyvolane
Bright with blossomed thorn,
Wandering with my early friends,
From school and world care free,
Wandering now in many a land,
Exiles by many a sea
Sing, Robin Redbreast, sing,
While listening to thy minstrelsy
Thro’ prison bars my soul will wing
To Ireland over the sea.
Ah me! ‘tis many a year ago –
How quickly time will fly –
Since we sang of home and liberty,
And true love that never should die.
As we sat in the shade of the dark green wood,
While the murmuring rivulets flow
With the “click, click” of the old mill wheel,
Made a chorus in the valley below
Sing, Robin Redbreast, sing
While listening to thy minstrelsy
The Green Glen echoes o’er me fling
The magic of its melody.
The schoolboy when he robbed thy nest,
In the joyous bird-nesting time,
Would start at sight of thy blood red breast
And pale at the thought of his crime,
The crimson stain was a sacred charm
To shield her from every foe,
And thy bright eye gladdens the peasant’s cot
When the roof-tree is covered with snow,
Sing, Robin Redbreast, sing
While listening to thy minstrelsy
I hear the Shandon bells that ring
So grand on the River Lee.
The Song has ceased – the rising wind
Sighing the forests trees among,
In cadence low and fitfully
Is hymning night’s mournful song.
And in my soul are ever singing,
Echoing there for evermore,
Songs that loved ones used to sing
Ere I left my native shore.
Sing, Robin Redbreast, sing,
In twilight grey thy song to me
And my soul thro’ prison bars will wing
To Ireland over the sea.
More old Irish Rebel Lyrics Here .
By: David O’ Connor – Dec 1894
“Oh, tell me, dear Mary, and why do you stray
Alone o’er the hills on this cold winter day?
‘Tis pleasanter far by your own kitchen fire,
Than to wander thus over the heights of Glanmire.”
“I mind not the winter wind how it may blow,
There’s a grave in Rathcooney to which I will go,
There’s a grave in Rathcooney beneath the tall tree,
There’s a grave in Rathcooney, a dear grave to me.”
“In that grave in Rathcooney your love lies asleep,
And you go o’er his ashes to pray and to weep;
Sad, sad for you, Mary, but death never spares,
And life for the living is planted with cares.”
“There’s a grave in Rathcooney beside the stone wall,
Though no lover lies there, ah, I love him withal,
For there all alone, where no cares can annoy,
Lies young Con O’ Driscol, the dear Fenian boy.”
“Lies young Con O’ Driscol, the brave and the good,
Whom the Sassenachs murdered below in the wood;
Oh, I honour and love them, and pray for, also.
Those brave Fenian boys that came out in the snow.”
“King-hearted, undaunted, high-thoughted of mind,
You never met Fenian boy mean or unkind;
Oh, when shall poor Ireland again see the like
Of the high-hearted rebels who carried the pike?
“When round in the church yard the snow may be seen,
When the pines in Rathcooney are waving in green,
When the wheat fields are yellow – in sorrow and joy
I will visit the grave of the dear Fenian boy.”
“True, true for you, Mary, but much I’m afraid
There’s small hope for the country that mocked and betrayed,
That flung the coarse libel, the pledged word that broke,
And did the foul deed that the Sassenach spoke.
“Foul, foul was the action, most foul and most base,
And for Ireland has proved a full pitiful case;
But knaves will be craven, and good men and true,
Must suffer and labour their crimes to undo.
“But hark to those voices that sing in the night!
‘Tis the dead Fenian boys urging on to the fight.
Do you think when the moment is ripe for the call
That the dead Fenian boys are worth nothing at all?
“Who lacks his proud spirit – who fears that no more
Will the high hopes for Freedom beat strong as before,
That Ireland’s unworthy her rights to enjoy?
Come – visit the grave of a bold Fenian boy.”
On hearing a robin sing
Brian Dillion – Woking Prison, near London.
When twilight darkened into night
Throws round my cell its somber shade,
And thronging memories sad or bright
Slowly come and slowly fade;
Then sweetly thro’ my prison bars
An old friend sings a song to me –
An old song from far-off times
Of youth and home and liberty.
Sing, Robin Redbreast, sing,
While listening to thy minstrelsy
Thro’ prison bars my soul will wing
To Ireland over the sea.
To boyhood’s happy, happy days,
To life’s flower-crowned morn,
Thro’ wood and glen of Ballyvolane
Bright with blossomed thorn,
Wandering with my early friends,
From school and world care free,
Wandering now in many a land,
Exiles by many a sea
Sing, Robin Redbreast, sing,
While listening to thy minstrelsy
Thro’ prison bars my soul will wing
To Ireland over the sea.
Ah me! ‘tis many a year ago –
How quickly time will fly –
Since we sang of home and liberty,
And true love that never should die.
As we sat in the shade of the dark green wood,
While the murmuring rivulets flow
With the “click, click” of the old mill wheel,
Made a chorus in the valley below
Sing, Robin Redbreast, sing
While listening to thy minstrelsy
The Green Glen echoes o’er me fling
The magic of its melody.
The schoolboy when he robbed thy nest,
In the joyous bird-nesting time,
Would start at sight of thy blood red breast
And pale at the thought of his crime,
The crimson stain was a sacred charm
To shield her from every foe,
And thy bright eye gladdens the peasant’s cot
When the roof-tree is covered with snow,
Sing, Robin Redbreast, sing
While listening to thy minstrelsy
I hear the Shandon bells that ring
So grand on the River Lee.
The Song has ceased – the rising wind
Sighing the forests trees among,
In cadence low and fitfully
Is hymning night’s mournful song.
And in my soul are ever singing,
Echoing there for evermore,
Songs that loved ones used to sing
Ere I left my native shore.
Sing, Robin Redbreast, sing,
In twilight grey thy song to me
And my soul thro’ prison bars will wing
To Ireland over the sea.
More old Irish Rebel Lyrics Here .
