Old Rebel Songs From Ireland
These are the very old rebel songs which have never before being published on the Internet. I have never heard any recordings of the songs here and so cannot put chords to them. They are beautifully crafted and written in the old style of song writing. I'm sure they'll be of interest to a few visitors of the site. If you like any of them and would like to sing them then put a tune of another song to it. most of the rebel songs are located in the Wolfe Tones section The Wolfe Tones Lyrics And Chords , in total there's over 400 rebel songs on the site.
Introduction
Irish rebel songs have a long and rich history in Ireland and have played a significant role in Irish culture, politics, and social movements. These songs have been passed down through generations and have been used as a means of resistance against oppression and as a way to express national identity and pride. In this thesis, we will explore the origins and evolution of Irish rebel songs, their role in Irish history and culture, and their impact on contemporary society.
Origins of Irish Rebel Songs
The origins of Irish rebel songs can be traced back to the 16th century during the Irish Rebellion of 1641. The rebellion, led by Irish Catholics against English Protestant settlers, resulted in the deaths of thousands of people and the displacement of many others. During this time, songs were used as a means of communication and resistance against the English rule. These songs were typically sung in Irish and were passed down through oral tradition.
The 18th and 19th centuries saw the rise of Irish nationalism and the emergence of revolutionary groups such as the United Irishmen and the Fenian Brotherhood. These groups used music as a powerful tool to unite the Irish people and to spread their political message. Songs such as 'The Wearing of the Green' and 'God Save Ireland' became popular among nationalists and were used to inspire and motivate their followers.
The Role of Irish Rebel Songs in History and Culture
Irish rebel songs have played a crucial role in Irish history and culture. During times of political and social upheaval, these songs served as a way for the Irish people to express their frustrations, hopes, and dreams. They also provided a sense of unity and solidarity among the Irish, who were often divided by religion, class, and political beliefs.
During the Irish War of Independence (1919-1921), rebel songs were used to rally support for the Irish Republican Army (IRA) and to denounce the British rule. Songs like 'The Foggy Dew' and 'Kevin Barry' became anthems for the Irish nationalist movement and were sung at rallies, demonstrations, and in pubs across the country.
Irish rebel songs also played a significant role in the Easter Rising of 1916, a pivotal event in Irish history that led to the establishment of the Irish Free State. Songs such as 'The Rising of the Moon' and 'The Soldier's Song' were sung by the rebels and their supporters during the uprising and have since become synonymous with Irish independence.
Impact on Contemporary Society
Despite the decline of traditional Irish rebel songs in the late 20th century, these songs continue to have a significant impact on contemporary Irish society. Many of these songs have been reinterpreted and recorded by modern Irish bands and artists, ensuring that they remain relevant and accessible to younger generations.
Moreover, Irish rebel songs have also been used as a means of protest and resistance against social and political issues in modern-day Ireland. During the Troubles in Northern Ireland (1969-1998), songs such as 'The Boys of the Old Brigade' and 'The Men Behind the Wire' were sung by both republican and loyalist communities, reflecting the deep-rooted divisions and tensions in the country.
Conclusion
In conclusion, Irish rebel songs have played a crucial role in Irish history and culture, serving as a means of resistance, unity, and expression. These songs have been passed down through generations and have evolved to reflect the changing political and social landscape in Ireland. Despite their decline in popularity, they continue to hold a special place in the hearts of the Irish people and serve as a reminder of their struggle for independence and identity.
Irish rebel songs have a long and rich history in Ireland and have played a significant role in Irish culture, politics, and social movements. These songs have been passed down through generations and have been used as a means of resistance against oppression and as a way to express national identity and pride. In this thesis, we will explore the origins and evolution of Irish rebel songs, their role in Irish history and culture, and their impact on contemporary society.
Origins of Irish Rebel Songs
The origins of Irish rebel songs can be traced back to the 16th century during the Irish Rebellion of 1641. The rebellion, led by Irish Catholics against English Protestant settlers, resulted in the deaths of thousands of people and the displacement of many others. During this time, songs were used as a means of communication and resistance against the English rule. These songs were typically sung in Irish and were passed down through oral tradition.
The 18th and 19th centuries saw the rise of Irish nationalism and the emergence of revolutionary groups such as the United Irishmen and the Fenian Brotherhood. These groups used music as a powerful tool to unite the Irish people and to spread their political message. Songs such as 'The Wearing of the Green' and 'God Save Ireland' became popular among nationalists and were used to inspire and motivate their followers.
The Role of Irish Rebel Songs in History and Culture
Irish rebel songs have played a crucial role in Irish history and culture. During times of political and social upheaval, these songs served as a way for the Irish people to express their frustrations, hopes, and dreams. They also provided a sense of unity and solidarity among the Irish, who were often divided by religion, class, and political beliefs.
During the Irish War of Independence (1919-1921), rebel songs were used to rally support for the Irish Republican Army (IRA) and to denounce the British rule. Songs like 'The Foggy Dew' and 'Kevin Barry' became anthems for the Irish nationalist movement and were sung at rallies, demonstrations, and in pubs across the country.
Irish rebel songs also played a significant role in the Easter Rising of 1916, a pivotal event in Irish history that led to the establishment of the Irish Free State. Songs such as 'The Rising of the Moon' and 'The Soldier's Song' were sung by the rebels and their supporters during the uprising and have since become synonymous with Irish independence.
Impact on Contemporary Society
Despite the decline of traditional Irish rebel songs in the late 20th century, these songs continue to have a significant impact on contemporary Irish society. Many of these songs have been reinterpreted and recorded by modern Irish bands and artists, ensuring that they remain relevant and accessible to younger generations.
Moreover, Irish rebel songs have also been used as a means of protest and resistance against social and political issues in modern-day Ireland. During the Troubles in Northern Ireland (1969-1998), songs such as 'The Boys of the Old Brigade' and 'The Men Behind the Wire' were sung by both republican and loyalist communities, reflecting the deep-rooted divisions and tensions in the country.
Conclusion
In conclusion, Irish rebel songs have played a crucial role in Irish history and culture, serving as a means of resistance, unity, and expression. These songs have been passed down through generations and have evolved to reflect the changing political and social landscape in Ireland. Despite their decline in popularity, they continue to hold a special place in the hearts of the Irish people and serve as a reminder of their struggle for independence and identity.

Here's a story that appeared in Folk Magazine in 1968. It's a sort of explanation as to why rebel songs are played at sessions in pubs in Ireland.
Of late we have noticed a number of letters appearing in the evening newspapers proporting to be from annoyed Irish people who claim that during the tourist season last year, they brought their English visitor friends to some ballad session or other, only to be embarrassed by the singing of rebel songs. These letters usually close with a pious wish that folk singers in the coming tourist season will not offend our English visitors. Now far be it for us to suggest that these letters are part of some sinister campaign to undermine the confidence of our singers in their own folk songs. We would like to point out however, some facts that have a bearing on the matter. Just in case these letters should increase in the coming months and perhaps discourage our folk groups from singing our rebel songs.
Firstly we are quiet sure that the majority of overseas visitors who
go to ballad sessions know quiet well that the songs are not aimed at them personally, and if the songs tell the same wrong doing in the past, surely they can appreciate it for its historical significance.
If on the other hand the song is a contemporary one, and mentions
partition, or British troops in the Six Counties, perhaps our Irish
friends who bring visitors to hear such rebel songs, could explain to.
them, in a friendly way of course, that these songs are a carrying on of the traditions of rebel songs as long as the injustice continues, and we are sure that all honest English visitors, once they know the facts will admit that this is an injustice and will probably end their visit to an Irish ballad session shouting ''Up The Rebels.''
There is also the point that continental and American visitors, come
here, not to hear Tom Paxton or Bob Dylan but to hear Irish lads and lassies, sing out a folk song as only we, with our unbroken tradition can.
Secondly, anybody that goes to a ballad session knows, or should know, that they are going to hear folk songs, and these songs that are labelled Rebel Songs' are most certainly Folk Songs. Some of our most intensely nationalistic songs were written by Priests or School Masters. But most of these Rebel songs that tell of battles won or lost, were written by people who were classed by our overlords as illiterate peasants. Yet these songs traveled from end to end of the country. They were carried by wandering labourers, moving from district to district looking for work. They were written and sung by tailors, shoemakers, weavers etc. In other words, songs written by ordinary people, for ordinary people. Herein lies the secret of their continued popularity and why they were sung whenever and where ever Irish people met. We would ask folk groups to ponder on this before changing over to polite little American folk songs. Ask yourself what is the secret of the continued popularity of these songs. If the reason still eludes you, we offer as further evidence, the growing popularity of Meave Mulvaney, The Dubliners, The Wolfe Tones [ lyrics ] and The Owen Roe, and many others who continue to sing our rebel songs, making no apologies to anybody.
From Folk Magazine, Dublin 1968.
Of late we have noticed a number of letters appearing in the evening newspapers proporting to be from annoyed Irish people who claim that during the tourist season last year, they brought their English visitor friends to some ballad session or other, only to be embarrassed by the singing of rebel songs. These letters usually close with a pious wish that folk singers in the coming tourist season will not offend our English visitors. Now far be it for us to suggest that these letters are part of some sinister campaign to undermine the confidence of our singers in their own folk songs. We would like to point out however, some facts that have a bearing on the matter. Just in case these letters should increase in the coming months and perhaps discourage our folk groups from singing our rebel songs.
Firstly we are quiet sure that the majority of overseas visitors who
go to ballad sessions know quiet well that the songs are not aimed at them personally, and if the songs tell the same wrong doing in the past, surely they can appreciate it for its historical significance.
If on the other hand the song is a contemporary one, and mentions
partition, or British troops in the Six Counties, perhaps our Irish
friends who bring visitors to hear such rebel songs, could explain to.
them, in a friendly way of course, that these songs are a carrying on of the traditions of rebel songs as long as the injustice continues, and we are sure that all honest English visitors, once they know the facts will admit that this is an injustice and will probably end their visit to an Irish ballad session shouting ''Up The Rebels.''
There is also the point that continental and American visitors, come
here, not to hear Tom Paxton or Bob Dylan but to hear Irish lads and lassies, sing out a folk song as only we, with our unbroken tradition can.
Secondly, anybody that goes to a ballad session knows, or should know, that they are going to hear folk songs, and these songs that are labelled Rebel Songs' are most certainly Folk Songs. Some of our most intensely nationalistic songs were written by Priests or School Masters. But most of these Rebel songs that tell of battles won or lost, were written by people who were classed by our overlords as illiterate peasants. Yet these songs traveled from end to end of the country. They were carried by wandering labourers, moving from district to district looking for work. They were written and sung by tailors, shoemakers, weavers etc. In other words, songs written by ordinary people, for ordinary people. Herein lies the secret of their continued popularity and why they were sung whenever and where ever Irish people met. We would ask folk groups to ponder on this before changing over to polite little American folk songs. Ask yourself what is the secret of the continued popularity of these songs. If the reason still eludes you, we offer as further evidence, the growing popularity of Meave Mulvaney, The Dubliners, The Wolfe Tones [ lyrics ] and The Owen Roe, and many others who continue to sing our rebel songs, making no apologies to anybody.
From Folk Magazine, Dublin 1968.
"Give us a rebel song!"
The invariable request from the back of the room is easily and cheerfully answered in song by every Irish folk band south of Armagh. Curiously, the demand is as readily satisfied by the echoing bodbrán-beat of Follow Me Up To Carlow, celebrating an Elizabethan Irish rebel victory, as it is by the stinging lyric of The Men Behind the Wire, from the battle-streets of modern Belfast. In the long march of the Irish National Tradition, events four centuries apart are very much "on the one road." So long as the common threads of Saxon Perfidy and Defiant Resistance are present in the song, the audience considers its request ful- filled.
For the perplexed observer searching for the reasons behind the seemingly unending Irish hostility to the British Crown, one trip to an Irish pub is often more revealing than many to the library. As the lads on stage roar rousing elegies to martyrs long dead, attorneys and dustmen at the bar bellow out the refrains energetically, hoisting their pints to the Boys of the Old Brigade. Matrons in designer jeans and maids in Sunday frocks gleefully whoop, "Up the Rebels!", their drinks forgotten in the need to free both hands for clapping. An atavistic beast, eight centuries a-growing, has been loosed by the music. To understand the discouraging headlines of the Irish Today, it is essential to com- prehend the Irish Yesterday in which that beast was spawned.
It has become a cliché to suggest that the Irish past may best be learned by listening to the ballads. As is true with many such commonplaces, this one holds more than a shred of truth; in the realm of the Irish National Tradition, at least, the cliché has a great deal of validity. The folk tradition suggests that the last eight centuries have been a constant struggle against the in- vader. Most modern historians would tend to disagree, citing a wealth of socio-economic data to emphasise that the view is simplistic. The cultural anthropologist, however, just might con cur with the folk-historian, submitting that the reality perceived by a people-accurate or not-should not be underestimated. The problem, of course, is that the historian writes for other academics; the poet, on the other hand, sings for the people. If history is, as Carlyle counsels, a distillation of rumour, it makes little difference if the rumour is reported by a Macaulay or a wandering bard. And for all the hand-wringing it occasions in the groves of academe, the common folk are more likely to listen to the poet than the historian; they hear far more songs than they read books. The fact is simply that the folk history of Ireland is real to the common people, and does serve as their inspiration to the future. The Irish have a "tendency to live in their past," George Dangerfield remarks, "to cherish it and nurse it, because it is a past of indignities and oppressions, and has a more visceral and more poignant character to them than the English past has to their English neighbors." Eight hundred years of Anglo- Hibernian history-and perhaps fifteen centuries of Gaelic tradi-tion before that-have been woven into the rich, evocative tapestry of Irish songs of resistance.
It is not merely the humble folk of Ireland who respond to the music. The modern scholar, perhaps comfortable himself with quiet pages of dry prose, is often surprised at the ease with which the rebel ballads arouse noisy emotions in the breasts of even waistcoated and bejewelled denizens of the middle and upper class. He may fail to understand that he is witnessing the musical equivalent of the classless, time-honoured Irish tradition of retiring to the pub to "talk a little treason." The use of balladeers for rabble-rousing has had a long history in Ireland. Emily Hahn refers to the practice among the ancient Gaelic chieftains and the English response to it:
Some lords used bards expressly to inspirit their fighting men... In years to come the Normans detested this practice among the Irish, as did the English. Time after time the invaders passed laws against Irish harpists and bards, without effect.
To the sorrow and consternation of the Stranger, no sort of legislation seemed to have much effect on the Irish. For reasons in- explicable to the British-and perfectly obvious to the Gaels-the unruly Hibernians repeatedly ignored English law and custom, preferring instead to sing the story of a Brehon Law and Celtic folk tradition that had its origin in the dim mists of prehistory.
If the rebel song has become a distinct form in the folk music of the Irish, it has not always been. The birth of rebel balladry was not an event; rather, it was a process evolving from a Celtic culture that had always accorded an honoured place to the poet, the bard, and the storyteller. Relatively new to the folk-ways of the Gael-in the context of Irish history, the 1169 coming of the Normans is itself a recent event-the rebel song emerged first in Tudor Ireland in the form of rosg catba, bardic haranguing on the eve of battle. By the end of the eighteenth century, the song of resistance had settled into the Irish folk tradition with some permanence. To understand why the rebel ballad has become so important to the Irish, it must first be recognised that the folk-memories of the oldest continuous Western culture have never died. The Irish, quite simply, have never lost their primary identification as Irishmen.
When the Celts first arrived in Ireland sometime between 900-400 B.C., they discovered a bucolic society that had been thriving undisturbed by outside influence for thousands of years. Within the next millennium, the Celts and the "original Irish" had merged; by the time of Christ, there was a common poetry and language, a common Gaelic cultural identity. Unlike the shifting states of Europe whose borders were traditionally shaped by the most recent conqueror, Ireland was tucked out in the Atlantic with God-given boundaries that kept marauders away for sufficient centuries to allow a distinctive political and cultural entity to emerge. In the absence of foreign intervention- not even the Romans bothered to cross the Irish Sea-the isolated Gaels established a rude political system based on the tuath, or tribal clan. It was a sort of imperfect balance-of-power arrange- ment in which the various kings recognised each other's claim to tribal territory, even as they raided their neighbor's cattle. A pastoral people, the early Irish were generally more interested in adding to their herds than in establishing geographic hegemony over their rivals' lands. Although there was an Ard Ri, or High King, his position was largely that of "chairman of the board" when the most important chieftains met together on the royal Hill of Tara to settle their incessant squabbles. Of far more im- portance than the tribal political system was the culture that grew up within it.
1
Druidic poets gradually had become the custodians of the oral tradition-there was no written language. These ollúna, or master poets, who also served as historians and genealogists, eventually became the dispensers of common justice. In many ways, the High Druids were more powerful than the kings; it would not be unreasonable, in fact, to call the cultural system a diarchy. Uisneach, the seat of these exalted magistrates in mod- ern Westmeath, was probably of more importance to the prehis toric Irish than Tara, its more famous political equivalent almost forty miles to the east.
In those pre-Christian days, there was a definite pecking order among the pagan Druids. The ollúna were the final arbiters of the Senchus Mór, the sophisticated body of oral case-law- memorised by them in rhymed verse-that was to evolve into the famed Brehon Law. These mysterious hooded figures were the interpreters of a law to which even the kings were subject. A step below the High Druids were the fili, sort of local judge-poets who traditionally served individual tribal chieftains of the second-rank. The humble folk of Ireland rarely dealt with the lofty olluna or fili; rather, the lowly clansmen heard their poems and stories from the bards and storytellers of the meanest order, the seanchaitbe, who criss-crossed the island settling mundane disputes and "singing for their supper."
These apprentice poets often told their tales through the long winter nights from Sambaine to Bealtaine-in modern par- lance, All Saints' Day to May Day-when the cattle raiding had presumably died down for the season. It was not unusual for the people of an entire townland to crowd into the largest cabin to hear the bard spin out his sagas by the crackling hearth. The common Irish heard chronicles of legendary heroes and faery enchantments, of harrowing ghosts and romantic quests, of famous battles and spectacular duels. Nor were these extem- poraneous performances: each ollamb was required to spend at least twenty years of apprenticeship as seanchai and file in turn, learning by rote the entire oral lore of Ireland. In addition to the entire Senchus Mór and over 350 ritual sagas, the High Druids were required to commit the complete genealogy of all chieftains to memory word-for-word. The intellectual accom- plishment of these illiterate early poets only comes clearly into focus when it is considered exactly what this meant:
1) The Senchus Mór-the great ancient law-codified first with the coming of the Christian scribes, was case law stretching back to the much older Seanchus agus Félineachus na hEireann-the Ancient Laws and Decisions of the Féini, the "original Irish." The law was memorised in a distinct form of Gaelic verse, Bearla Féini,
a dead language that insured that the law was protected from re- interpretation "by idiom" (much as the use of Latin in the Catho- lic Mass insures the immutability of the ceremony). This ancient code, stretching back at least 2,500 years, reduced all offenses to civil wrongs, and was designed to compensate the victim rather than the society.
2) The sagas were also memorised precisely. Táin Bo Cuailnge, "the Cattle-Raid of Cooley," the story of Cúchulainn, is the most famous of all Irish traditional tales. In the twelfth century Book of Leinster, a colophon is included with it: "A blessing on everyone who will memorize the Tain with fidelity in this form and will not put any other form on it." It was in fact part of the stylised ritual of the recitation for the storyteller to end his tale with the disclaimer, "That is my story! If there be a lie in it, be it so! It is not I who made or invented it."
The tales of the seancbaitbe were both history and news journal to the common folk of Ireland. It is not surprising that contemporary heroism and classical legend became confused... sometimes on purpose by filí intent on flattering their patrons. As the court poets composed verse praising their sponsoring chieftains, the wandering bards brought the heroic sagas to the rude homes of the countryside. The tradition endured far longer than might be supposed. Alwyn and Brinley Rees report that, as late as 1860 in one isolated locale, the "adventures of Ossian were as true and real to the storytellers... and those who listened to them as were the latest exploits of the British Army to readers of newspapers."
When Christianity burst upon Ireland during the fifth
century, the influence of the pagan Druids was threatened. Two events, however, intervened to insure that the stylistic oral tradition would not disappear. First, St. Columcille (Columba of Iona) convinced the sixth century kings to retain their sponsor- ship of the filf as official court poets. Second, scribes in the new Christian monasteries began to record into Latin manuscript any- thing they could get their hands on-be it originally in Roman, Greek, or Gaelic. The position of the poets underwent a subtle metamorphosis; still held in awe by king and clansman, the ollina and fili evolved into the Brehons, maintaining their bardic, historical, and magisterial duties while ceding religion to the Catholic monks. The kings, retaining their political pre- eminence, gradually became paramount in the society. Tara superseded Uisneach. The ritual and mythology of the pagan Celtic tradition had found a comfortable marriage with the new Christian influence. The result was a novel and uniquely Gaelic- Christian culture that retained its ties with the old ways. From that time, Christ and CúChulainn have marched together through Irish history."
As administrators of a complicated but pervasive system of societal justice, the Brehons managed to maintain a state of re- lative order that enabled Ireland to become the "keeper of the flame of knowledge" during the European Dark Ages. The Irish chieftains continued to storm through each other's territory seeking cattle and slaves, but they dared not trouble the Brehon- protected monasteries. Meanwhile, the monks within laboriously copied the plays of Terence and Aristophanes, along with the legends of Cúchulainn, for posterity (presumably wrinkling their collective noses at the content). While the centres of European learning slipped into shadow, St. Kieran was founding a great monastic university at Clonmacnois in 548. John F. Kennedy was not merely demonstrating pride of ancestry when he commented that "No larger nation did more to keep Christianity and Western culture alive in their darkest centuries." Famous monks such as Columbanus, Sedulius Scotus, Dicuil, and John Scotus Eriugena spread over Europe as educational and spiritual missionaries during the next several centuries. Ruth Dudley Edwards reports that by the ninth century Irish scholars:
had a widespread European reputation. Charlemagne had appoint- ed Irish masters to his palace schools, and during the ninth century Irish scholars... had an important role in the establishment of France as a centre of learning.
Soon after the founding of Clonmacnois, two other developments occurred which were to have a lasting impact on the Gaelic tradition. First, the monks began to chronicle Irish his tory. Second, organised bardic schools began to appear. No longer would the history of the island be confined to a few fili; now there was at once a written record of the Irish past, and men who could both learn it and carry it to the people. The combination initiated an historical impulse that was in full flower by the tenth century. More important to the National Tradition, researchers have found no trace of individual histories of the 150 tuatha on the island. The Dictionary of Irish Literature laconically notes that "from the beginning, the history written was the history of Ireland." It is perhaps not merely coincidence that the full blooming of this historical impulse among the Irish was to be chronologically congruous with his- tory's only United Ireland.
One major reason for the spread of Irish educational missions to the continent was the onslaught of the Vikings in the ninth century. Presumably, many monks were quickly con- vinced of the worthiness of missionary work abroad shortly after the Danes found that the monasteries provided far better loot than coastal fishing villages. Although many of the Norsemen were soon absorbed into Gaelic society, the power of those living in the new Viking towns along the shore threatened to de- stroy the old order. It provided the impetus needed for an am- bitious Munster chieftain to unite the island politically for the first time at the beginning of the eleventh century. The fabled Brian Boru was killed shortly thereafter as the Danes were ousted "for good." They were to return in the guise of their Norman descendants in 1169.
The Irish had been able to largely absorb the Viking invasion for two major reasons. First, the Northmen who came to Ireland did not owe allegiance to a foreign nation-state; they settled in Ireland precisely because they were on their own. Second, the Vikings were merely after booty and had a vested interest in seeing that the native Irish culture was not irreparably damaged; so long as the native society survived, there was spoil to be had. The Normans turned out to be another matter altogether. While the individual invaders were not averse to plunder, they owed their nominal allegiance to a foreign state that wanted to be cut in on the action. When the Norman marcher lords of Ireland began to side with the native Gaelic chieftains against their supposed overlords in London, it was a direct threat to the modern nation making up on the Thames. The Crown of Eng- land was ambitious; it wanted political power in Ireland. When London finally realised that hegemony could not be exercised effectively in Ireland unless the native culture was supplanted, it just never occurred to the Crown that the price would be so expensive.
Kings and ministers came and went in the early years of English "occupation" without appreciably affecting the lifestyle of the humble folk. When the Crown declared war on the Gaelic culture, however, it affected the Irish from king to kern... and poet. The people fought back with the weapons ready to hand. The fili fought back, too; in their acerb verse was born the rebel song.
Nationalism and rebellion in Ireland first truly became one during the Elizabethan era. The Irish began to invoke their folk heroes to help them jettison the English. The halcyon days of Brian Boru-and a United Ireland-were recalled fondly. The chauvinistic bards reminded the people that the Gaelic Ireland of Finn MacCool, Queen Maeve, and Cormac MacArt had developed an heroic culture while the Saxons were still ruffian serfs to dissipate Rome. The savage treatment meted out to the Irish was answered, as most things are in Ireland, by a question: "What else can be expected from barbarians?" The tragedy of Ireland for the last four centuries has been that, from their different perspective, the English have asked the same question.
The early seventeenth-century Flight of the Earls, with the resultant Ulster Plantation, was supposed to set the stage for the finale of the English play. It has been a long last act... its un- ending musical score is the subject of this work.
OUR HERITAGE
For much of the history of Ireland the literacy of the common man has been prevented by circumstances or prohibited by law. The Irishman has compensated for his lack of reading and writing skills with verse and music. C. Desmond Greaves affords an accurate appraisal of the importance of the folk balladry:
those who wrote them, Irish songs gave a truer folk history than the card-indexes of the colleges, because they recorded the emotions of the common people, emotions recalled often enough when the events that occasioned them might be partly forgotten.
Given the conditions of his existence, it was perhaps inevitable that the Irishman would sing songs of resistance. Given the continuity of his cultural tradition, it is not surprising that he would look to the pantheon of ancient Irish heroes for his muse.
This ballad by Joseph Mary Plunkett echoes the ancient call that sent men out to their fate on Easter Monday 1916 to declare the Irish Republic. The martial poet was shot for his part in that rising, since taking his own honoured place in the hagiology of Irish martyrdom.
The Irish rebel song exists for two primary reasons: (1) the verse tradition of the Irish, and (2) the continuing insistence of the Stranger that a military "solution" could be found to answer the Irish Question. To get a feel for the poetic tradition, com- pare this comment about ancient Ireland:
Over the centuries, the English have had no shortage of ad- visors "on the spot" in Ireland counselling against a military solution of the Irish Question. It is one of the tragedies of Anglo- Hibernian history that the British colonialist leadership in England has consistently disbelieved its professional soldiers in the field. Consider, for example, the following two dispatches, both of which were addressed to the authorities in London:
The folk culture of Ireland has drawn the heroes and villains of history in sharp detail, and recurringly returned to the weapons of an earlier day to fight the Stranger. Martyrdom, hunger strike, and the power of the poet have been handed down through the generations from pre-Brehon Ireland. Over the long centuries, the larger-than-life figures of Gaelic legend have be come one with the hapless creatures on the English gallows tree. In a very real way, Conn of the Hundred Battles is still alive on the streets of modern Belfast... with a file by his side.
The invariable request from the back of the room is easily and cheerfully answered in song by every Irish folk band south of Armagh. Curiously, the demand is as readily satisfied by the echoing bodbrán-beat of Follow Me Up To Carlow, celebrating an Elizabethan Irish rebel victory, as it is by the stinging lyric of The Men Behind the Wire, from the battle-streets of modern Belfast. In the long march of the Irish National Tradition, events four centuries apart are very much "on the one road." So long as the common threads of Saxon Perfidy and Defiant Resistance are present in the song, the audience considers its request ful- filled.
For the perplexed observer searching for the reasons behind the seemingly unending Irish hostility to the British Crown, one trip to an Irish pub is often more revealing than many to the library. As the lads on stage roar rousing elegies to martyrs long dead, attorneys and dustmen at the bar bellow out the refrains energetically, hoisting their pints to the Boys of the Old Brigade. Matrons in designer jeans and maids in Sunday frocks gleefully whoop, "Up the Rebels!", their drinks forgotten in the need to free both hands for clapping. An atavistic beast, eight centuries a-growing, has been loosed by the music. To understand the discouraging headlines of the Irish Today, it is essential to com- prehend the Irish Yesterday in which that beast was spawned.
It has become a cliché to suggest that the Irish past may best be learned by listening to the ballads. As is true with many such commonplaces, this one holds more than a shred of truth; in the realm of the Irish National Tradition, at least, the cliché has a great deal of validity. The folk tradition suggests that the last eight centuries have been a constant struggle against the in- vader. Most modern historians would tend to disagree, citing a wealth of socio-economic data to emphasise that the view is simplistic. The cultural anthropologist, however, just might con cur with the folk-historian, submitting that the reality perceived by a people-accurate or not-should not be underestimated. The problem, of course, is that the historian writes for other academics; the poet, on the other hand, sings for the people. If history is, as Carlyle counsels, a distillation of rumour, it makes little difference if the rumour is reported by a Macaulay or a wandering bard. And for all the hand-wringing it occasions in the groves of academe, the common folk are more likely to listen to the poet than the historian; they hear far more songs than they read books. The fact is simply that the folk history of Ireland is real to the common people, and does serve as their inspiration to the future. The Irish have a "tendency to live in their past," George Dangerfield remarks, "to cherish it and nurse it, because it is a past of indignities and oppressions, and has a more visceral and more poignant character to them than the English past has to their English neighbors." Eight hundred years of Anglo- Hibernian history-and perhaps fifteen centuries of Gaelic tradi-tion before that-have been woven into the rich, evocative tapestry of Irish songs of resistance.
It is not merely the humble folk of Ireland who respond to the music. The modern scholar, perhaps comfortable himself with quiet pages of dry prose, is often surprised at the ease with which the rebel ballads arouse noisy emotions in the breasts of even waistcoated and bejewelled denizens of the middle and upper class. He may fail to understand that he is witnessing the musical equivalent of the classless, time-honoured Irish tradition of retiring to the pub to "talk a little treason." The use of balladeers for rabble-rousing has had a long history in Ireland. Emily Hahn refers to the practice among the ancient Gaelic chieftains and the English response to it:
Some lords used bards expressly to inspirit their fighting men... In years to come the Normans detested this practice among the Irish, as did the English. Time after time the invaders passed laws against Irish harpists and bards, without effect.
To the sorrow and consternation of the Stranger, no sort of legislation seemed to have much effect on the Irish. For reasons in- explicable to the British-and perfectly obvious to the Gaels-the unruly Hibernians repeatedly ignored English law and custom, preferring instead to sing the story of a Brehon Law and Celtic folk tradition that had its origin in the dim mists of prehistory.
If the rebel song has become a distinct form in the folk music of the Irish, it has not always been. The birth of rebel balladry was not an event; rather, it was a process evolving from a Celtic culture that had always accorded an honoured place to the poet, the bard, and the storyteller. Relatively new to the folk-ways of the Gael-in the context of Irish history, the 1169 coming of the Normans is itself a recent event-the rebel song emerged first in Tudor Ireland in the form of rosg catba, bardic haranguing on the eve of battle. By the end of the eighteenth century, the song of resistance had settled into the Irish folk tradition with some permanence. To understand why the rebel ballad has become so important to the Irish, it must first be recognised that the folk-memories of the oldest continuous Western culture have never died. The Irish, quite simply, have never lost their primary identification as Irishmen.
When the Celts first arrived in Ireland sometime between 900-400 B.C., they discovered a bucolic society that had been thriving undisturbed by outside influence for thousands of years. Within the next millennium, the Celts and the "original Irish" had merged; by the time of Christ, there was a common poetry and language, a common Gaelic cultural identity. Unlike the shifting states of Europe whose borders were traditionally shaped by the most recent conqueror, Ireland was tucked out in the Atlantic with God-given boundaries that kept marauders away for sufficient centuries to allow a distinctive political and cultural entity to emerge. In the absence of foreign intervention- not even the Romans bothered to cross the Irish Sea-the isolated Gaels established a rude political system based on the tuath, or tribal clan. It was a sort of imperfect balance-of-power arrange- ment in which the various kings recognised each other's claim to tribal territory, even as they raided their neighbor's cattle. A pastoral people, the early Irish were generally more interested in adding to their herds than in establishing geographic hegemony over their rivals' lands. Although there was an Ard Ri, or High King, his position was largely that of "chairman of the board" when the most important chieftains met together on the royal Hill of Tara to settle their incessant squabbles. Of far more im- portance than the tribal political system was the culture that grew up within it.
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Druidic poets gradually had become the custodians of the oral tradition-there was no written language. These ollúna, or master poets, who also served as historians and genealogists, eventually became the dispensers of common justice. In many ways, the High Druids were more powerful than the kings; it would not be unreasonable, in fact, to call the cultural system a diarchy. Uisneach, the seat of these exalted magistrates in mod- ern Westmeath, was probably of more importance to the prehis toric Irish than Tara, its more famous political equivalent almost forty miles to the east.
In those pre-Christian days, there was a definite pecking order among the pagan Druids. The ollúna were the final arbiters of the Senchus Mór, the sophisticated body of oral case-law- memorised by them in rhymed verse-that was to evolve into the famed Brehon Law. These mysterious hooded figures were the interpreters of a law to which even the kings were subject. A step below the High Druids were the fili, sort of local judge-poets who traditionally served individual tribal chieftains of the second-rank. The humble folk of Ireland rarely dealt with the lofty olluna or fili; rather, the lowly clansmen heard their poems and stories from the bards and storytellers of the meanest order, the seanchaitbe, who criss-crossed the island settling mundane disputes and "singing for their supper."
These apprentice poets often told their tales through the long winter nights from Sambaine to Bealtaine-in modern par- lance, All Saints' Day to May Day-when the cattle raiding had presumably died down for the season. It was not unusual for the people of an entire townland to crowd into the largest cabin to hear the bard spin out his sagas by the crackling hearth. The common Irish heard chronicles of legendary heroes and faery enchantments, of harrowing ghosts and romantic quests, of famous battles and spectacular duels. Nor were these extem- poraneous performances: each ollamb was required to spend at least twenty years of apprenticeship as seanchai and file in turn, learning by rote the entire oral lore of Ireland. In addition to the entire Senchus Mór and over 350 ritual sagas, the High Druids were required to commit the complete genealogy of all chieftains to memory word-for-word. The intellectual accom- plishment of these illiterate early poets only comes clearly into focus when it is considered exactly what this meant:
1) The Senchus Mór-the great ancient law-codified first with the coming of the Christian scribes, was case law stretching back to the much older Seanchus agus Félineachus na hEireann-the Ancient Laws and Decisions of the Féini, the "original Irish." The law was memorised in a distinct form of Gaelic verse, Bearla Féini,
a dead language that insured that the law was protected from re- interpretation "by idiom" (much as the use of Latin in the Catho- lic Mass insures the immutability of the ceremony). This ancient code, stretching back at least 2,500 years, reduced all offenses to civil wrongs, and was designed to compensate the victim rather than the society.
2) The sagas were also memorised precisely. Táin Bo Cuailnge, "the Cattle-Raid of Cooley," the story of Cúchulainn, is the most famous of all Irish traditional tales. In the twelfth century Book of Leinster, a colophon is included with it: "A blessing on everyone who will memorize the Tain with fidelity in this form and will not put any other form on it." It was in fact part of the stylised ritual of the recitation for the storyteller to end his tale with the disclaimer, "That is my story! If there be a lie in it, be it so! It is not I who made or invented it."
The tales of the seancbaitbe were both history and news journal to the common folk of Ireland. It is not surprising that contemporary heroism and classical legend became confused... sometimes on purpose by filí intent on flattering their patrons. As the court poets composed verse praising their sponsoring chieftains, the wandering bards brought the heroic sagas to the rude homes of the countryside. The tradition endured far longer than might be supposed. Alwyn and Brinley Rees report that, as late as 1860 in one isolated locale, the "adventures of Ossian were as true and real to the storytellers... and those who listened to them as were the latest exploits of the British Army to readers of newspapers."
When Christianity burst upon Ireland during the fifth
century, the influence of the pagan Druids was threatened. Two events, however, intervened to insure that the stylistic oral tradition would not disappear. First, St. Columcille (Columba of Iona) convinced the sixth century kings to retain their sponsor- ship of the filf as official court poets. Second, scribes in the new Christian monasteries began to record into Latin manuscript any- thing they could get their hands on-be it originally in Roman, Greek, or Gaelic. The position of the poets underwent a subtle metamorphosis; still held in awe by king and clansman, the ollina and fili evolved into the Brehons, maintaining their bardic, historical, and magisterial duties while ceding religion to the Catholic monks. The kings, retaining their political pre- eminence, gradually became paramount in the society. Tara superseded Uisneach. The ritual and mythology of the pagan Celtic tradition had found a comfortable marriage with the new Christian influence. The result was a novel and uniquely Gaelic- Christian culture that retained its ties with the old ways. From that time, Christ and CúChulainn have marched together through Irish history."
As administrators of a complicated but pervasive system of societal justice, the Brehons managed to maintain a state of re- lative order that enabled Ireland to become the "keeper of the flame of knowledge" during the European Dark Ages. The Irish chieftains continued to storm through each other's territory seeking cattle and slaves, but they dared not trouble the Brehon- protected monasteries. Meanwhile, the monks within laboriously copied the plays of Terence and Aristophanes, along with the legends of Cúchulainn, for posterity (presumably wrinkling their collective noses at the content). While the centres of European learning slipped into shadow, St. Kieran was founding a great monastic university at Clonmacnois in 548. John F. Kennedy was not merely demonstrating pride of ancestry when he commented that "No larger nation did more to keep Christianity and Western culture alive in their darkest centuries." Famous monks such as Columbanus, Sedulius Scotus, Dicuil, and John Scotus Eriugena spread over Europe as educational and spiritual missionaries during the next several centuries. Ruth Dudley Edwards reports that by the ninth century Irish scholars:
had a widespread European reputation. Charlemagne had appoint- ed Irish masters to his palace schools, and during the ninth century Irish scholars... had an important role in the establishment of France as a centre of learning.
Soon after the founding of Clonmacnois, two other developments occurred which were to have a lasting impact on the Gaelic tradition. First, the monks began to chronicle Irish his tory. Second, organised bardic schools began to appear. No longer would the history of the island be confined to a few fili; now there was at once a written record of the Irish past, and men who could both learn it and carry it to the people. The combination initiated an historical impulse that was in full flower by the tenth century. More important to the National Tradition, researchers have found no trace of individual histories of the 150 tuatha on the island. The Dictionary of Irish Literature laconically notes that "from the beginning, the history written was the history of Ireland." It is perhaps not merely coincidence that the full blooming of this historical impulse among the Irish was to be chronologically congruous with his- tory's only United Ireland.
One major reason for the spread of Irish educational missions to the continent was the onslaught of the Vikings in the ninth century. Presumably, many monks were quickly con- vinced of the worthiness of missionary work abroad shortly after the Danes found that the monasteries provided far better loot than coastal fishing villages. Although many of the Norsemen were soon absorbed into Gaelic society, the power of those living in the new Viking towns along the shore threatened to de- stroy the old order. It provided the impetus needed for an am- bitious Munster chieftain to unite the island politically for the first time at the beginning of the eleventh century. The fabled Brian Boru was killed shortly thereafter as the Danes were ousted "for good." They were to return in the guise of their Norman descendants in 1169.
The Irish had been able to largely absorb the Viking invasion for two major reasons. First, the Northmen who came to Ireland did not owe allegiance to a foreign nation-state; they settled in Ireland precisely because they were on their own. Second, the Vikings were merely after booty and had a vested interest in seeing that the native Irish culture was not irreparably damaged; so long as the native society survived, there was spoil to be had. The Normans turned out to be another matter altogether. While the individual invaders were not averse to plunder, they owed their nominal allegiance to a foreign state that wanted to be cut in on the action. When the Norman marcher lords of Ireland began to side with the native Gaelic chieftains against their supposed overlords in London, it was a direct threat to the modern nation making up on the Thames. The Crown of Eng- land was ambitious; it wanted political power in Ireland. When London finally realised that hegemony could not be exercised effectively in Ireland unless the native culture was supplanted, it just never occurred to the Crown that the price would be so expensive.
Kings and ministers came and went in the early years of English "occupation" without appreciably affecting the lifestyle of the humble folk. When the Crown declared war on the Gaelic culture, however, it affected the Irish from king to kern... and poet. The people fought back with the weapons ready to hand. The fili fought back, too; in their acerb verse was born the rebel song.
Nationalism and rebellion in Ireland first truly became one during the Elizabethan era. The Irish began to invoke their folk heroes to help them jettison the English. The halcyon days of Brian Boru-and a United Ireland-were recalled fondly. The chauvinistic bards reminded the people that the Gaelic Ireland of Finn MacCool, Queen Maeve, and Cormac MacArt had developed an heroic culture while the Saxons were still ruffian serfs to dissipate Rome. The savage treatment meted out to the Irish was answered, as most things are in Ireland, by a question: "What else can be expected from barbarians?" The tragedy of Ireland for the last four centuries has been that, from their different perspective, the English have asked the same question.
The early seventeenth-century Flight of the Earls, with the resultant Ulster Plantation, was supposed to set the stage for the finale of the English play. It has been a long last act... its un- ending musical score is the subject of this work.
OUR HERITAGE
For much of the history of Ireland the literacy of the common man has been prevented by circumstances or prohibited by law. The Irishman has compensated for his lack of reading and writing skills with verse and music. C. Desmond Greaves affords an accurate appraisal of the importance of the folk balladry:
those who wrote them, Irish songs gave a truer folk history than the card-indexes of the colleges, because they recorded the emotions of the common people, emotions recalled often enough when the events that occasioned them might be partly forgotten.
Given the conditions of his existence, it was perhaps inevitable that the Irishman would sing songs of resistance. Given the continuity of his cultural tradition, it is not surprising that he would look to the pantheon of ancient Irish heroes for his muse.
This ballad by Joseph Mary Plunkett echoes the ancient call that sent men out to their fate on Easter Monday 1916 to declare the Irish Republic. The martial poet was shot for his part in that rising, since taking his own honoured place in the hagiology of Irish martyrdom.
The Irish rebel song exists for two primary reasons: (1) the verse tradition of the Irish, and (2) the continuing insistence of the Stranger that a military "solution" could be found to answer the Irish Question. To get a feel for the poetic tradition, com- pare this comment about ancient Ireland:
Over the centuries, the English have had no shortage of ad- visors "on the spot" in Ireland counselling against a military solution of the Irish Question. It is one of the tragedies of Anglo- Hibernian history that the British colonialist leadership in England has consistently disbelieved its professional soldiers in the field. Consider, for example, the following two dispatches, both of which were addressed to the authorities in London:
The folk culture of Ireland has drawn the heroes and villains of history in sharp detail, and recurringly returned to the weapons of an earlier day to fight the Stranger. Martyrdom, hunger strike, and the power of the poet have been handed down through the generations from pre-Brehon Ireland. Over the long centuries, the larger-than-life figures of Gaelic legend have be come one with the hapless creatures on the English gallows tree. In a very real way, Conn of the Hundred Battles is still alive on the streets of modern Belfast... with a file by his side.
THE ORANGEMAN'S GALWAY BAY
Sang to the tune of Galway Bay Maybe some day I'll go back to dear old Ulster, Be it only on the twelfth day of July. To see once more the Orangemen in procession, And watch those loyal men go marching by. To see again King William on the banner, Our gracious Queen sown on the other side. Or to sit beside Craigavon on the platform, When he tells us how the men of Derry died. The winds that blow across the seas from Ulster, Are perfumed with Orange lillies as they blow. And the men who honour Aughrim and Boyne waters, Speak a language that the Fenians do not know. Yet the Fenians always try to teach us their ways, And scorn us for being what we are. But we want no Fenian Pope or Holy Water, No Surrender' is our watchword near and far. And if there's going to be a fight hereafter, And somehow soon sure there's going to be. We'll make the Fenian's blood flow just like water Down Belfast Lough into the Irish Sea. THE MEN OF DUBLIN Lyrics (1916) They nailed their banners to the mast: the Orange, White and Green; A nobler set of Irishmen the world has never seen. They knew through sloth and idleness, a nation's soul was lost, They rose to have dear Ireland's soul and counted not the cost. They knew well that a thousand men — they did not number more Could never break the tyrant's chain and drive him from our shore; But this they knew — and knew it well — they would not die in vain, Their blood would save our country's cause and give her life again. Who was it led this noble band, and what has been their fate? Was chivalry shown to them at last? No, worse than '98. They fought 'gainst overwhelming odds, and held them well at bay, Till Britain swore that she would make the innocent to pay. Then woe betide the citizens who went abroad that night, The soldiers lay in ambush, hid and shot them down at sight. They shot the women and men, they shot the children, too; The Defenders of Small Nations showed herself in colours true. Then after the surrender, there began a tyrant's reign, When young and old — the brave and true — all ruthlessly were slain. Tom Clarke, the Brothers Pearse, and Daly, Colbert young and gay, And Eamonn Ceannt and James Connolly [ lyrics ] were shot at dawn of day. The same fate met Sean Heuston, McDonagh and MacBride, But 'twas outside the G.P.O. the brave O'Rahilly died. Mallin, Plunkett and McDermott fell before a firing squad, Their blood, with brave O'Hanrahan's, for vengeance cries to God. Great numbers, too, were sentenced then and sent across the sea; The men and women, boys and girls, who strove to set us free. Gold could not buy the ones who fought for Ireland through that week. And they to make their sacrifice no purer cause could seek. Enshrined are they forever more in every Irish heart; God bless those men and women who played that noble part. Who left their homes behind them, who left their kith and kin, And rallied round their banner when the fighting did begin. May their memory live forever! May our children bless the name Of each one who fought for Ireland! May it ever be the same. May your country still have hero's that are not afraid to die On the battlefield or scoffold so our proud old flag may fly. THE ULSTER HILLS Seosamh Mac As Ireland deep in slumber lay. Her wise men counselled peace, Until the grace to England came, Her death grip to release. But there arose to face our foes Some gallant men who swore To raise the flag of Ireland aloft On the Ulster hills once more. Chorus: We hail with pride all those who died, Our freedom to maintain, And raise the flag of Ireland aloft On the Ulster hills again. From Limerick came 'a soldier brave, Sean Sabhat, to lead the band Of volunteers who did invade The barracks strongly manned By English troops and native dupes, And Sean and Feargal died, In raising over the Ulster hills Old Ireland's flag with pride. Chorus: O Hanluain brave from Monaghan, Before he went away, He got his mother's blessing, "For you," she said, I'll pray. I gladly give you to the cause, If God will you should die In raising over Ulster hills Old Ireland's flag on high." Chorus: Let neither gain or cowardly fear Make us stand aside, We won't deny — we'll loudly cry Their names with manly pride, Feargal Og 0 Hanluain! Sean Sabhat from Shannon side. To raise our flag over Ulster hills, They bravely fought and died. A MOTHER'S BLESSING - rebel song When Ireland is calling, Feargal, my boy, What more can a fond mother do, Only search in her heart and say with a sigh: "God's blessing and mine be with you." From Nazareth the road led to Calvary's Hill, And HIS Mother then showed the way A Mother should share in the cause of her Son When destiny chooses the day. When Ireland is calling, Feargal, my boy, Her message comes but to the few. Who, hearing His Voice in the tumult of Life. Are ready to dare and to do. Daring the might of aggression and power To fearlessly right a grave wrong "May God's Blessing and mine be with you, my boy, And with Ireland to whom you belong. (Feargal O'Hanlon received his mother's blessing before leaving home] for the Battle of Brookborouch) IF [ Irish Rebel Song Lyrics ] (Le caoin-chead ROSC) If I could coax an Irish child to listen To Pearse's lines about the slanting sun; If I could help him glean a little fraction From this man's knowledge of the Eternal One. If I could lead him in Pearse's footsteps, And fire him with the oath that this boy vowed; If he perchance should kneel and thus pray likewise, I'd sure feel a teacher mighty proud. If I could charm this child when twilight lingers Around the fire with tales of long ago; Of heroes bold who stood four-square for freedom -- At such a school young Pearse felt freedom's glow. If I could preach a love of our sireland, As the mother Pearse did with her little ones. Then I should be a teacher of the mothers, Who do forget that Ireland needs her sons. If I could tell this child what Pearse endured To free such parents from slave-mind plague; Then I might say another Pearse was moulded To snatch our lost ideals from the grave. - LTBHIN Nic GABHANT~ Lament For Patrick Pearse Written by Joseph M. Crofts Padraig Mac Piarais a real Geal Na hEireann. Oh why did you leave us in sorrow to pine. Your gone you are dead in the bloom of your manhood. In heaven's fair kingdom may your soul shine. You who fostered and taught a young generation To live the pure life of the Gael, hear our cry. Pray to God every day for the young Irish nation. A Padraig Pearse [ lyrics ] who leave us so. Padraig Mac Piarais, a file na heireann, ever bold was your pen with the truth. For your of truth, proud champion of vertue of love and of beauty in nature and soul. You were slain, a rhuire's fair land that bore you, But your spirit's abroad on winds passing by. And our people that breath them are stirred and undaunted. For they know that you left us for. WOLFE TONE Lyrics In childhood days I loved to sit upon my father's knee, And hear the hates of Granuaile and the days that used to be; I loved to dwell on what he'd tell, a story of his own About a hero brave and true, his name was Wolfe Tone. His many deed of bravery, the battles that he fought, And how he died in prison cell, I saddened at the thought. It left a spell how can I tell of tears when all alone With childish grief in true belief, I prayed for poor Wolfe Tone. In that sad, uneven struggle of the weak against the strong, When the anguished cry went to the sky `how long, oh God, how long.' An Empire's fate decreed a fate that made our people moan, You did your best, with God you rest, Indomitable Tone. A little grave at Bodenstown close by an ivied wall, Where the dust of one of Ireland's best awaits the angels call. And with God's Will he'll guide us still 'till all our land we'll own. Then swords of flame shall trace the name the of our awn uncotuluered Written by Padraig Widger THE MEN OF DUBLIN Rebel song Lyrics (1916) They nailed their banners to the mast: the Orange, White and Green; A nobler set of Irishmen the world has never seen. They knew through sloth and idleness, a nation's soul was lost, They rose to have dear Ireland's soul and counted not the cost. They knew well that a thousand men — they did not number more Could never break the tyrant's chain and drive him from our shore; But this they knew — and knew it well — they would not die in vain, Their blood would save our country's cause and give her life again. Who was it led this noble band, and what has been their fate? Was chivalry shown to them at last? No, worse than '98. They fought 'gainst overwhelming odds, and held them well at bay, Till Britain swore that she would make the innocent to pay. Then woe betide the citizens who went abroad that night, The soldiers lay in ambush, hid and shot them down at sight. They shot the women and men, they shot the children, too; The Defenders of Small Nations showed herself in colours true. Then after the surrender, there began a tyrant's reign, When young and old — the brave and true — all ruthlessly were slain. Tom Clarke, the Brothers Pearse, and Daly, Colbert young and gay, And Eamonn Ceannt and Connolly were shot at dawn of day. The same fate met Sean Heuston, McDonagh and MacBride, But 'twas outside the G.P.O. the brave O'Rahilly died. Mallin, Plunkett and McDermott fell before a firing squad, Their blood, with brave O'Hanrahan's, for vengeance cries to God. Great numbers, too, were sentenced then and sent across the sea; The men and women, boys and girls, who strove to set us free. Gold could not buy the ones who fought for Ireland through that week. And they to make their sacrifice no purer cause could seek. Enshrined are they forever more in every Irish heart; God bless those men and women who played that noble part. Who left their homes behind them, who left their kith and kin, And rallied round their banner when the fighting did begin. May their memory live forever! May our children bless the name Of each one who fought for Ireland! May it ever be the same. May your country still have hero's that are not afraid to die On the battlefield or scoffold so our proud old flag may fly. MacSWINEY TAUGHT US HOW TO DIE Lyrics By Frances P. Donnelly (Air: Maidin i mBeara or The Derry Air[ Danny Boy Lyrics ] In flaming fight when man his man is facing, And down the line ten thousand madly cheer. When through the veins the blood goes hotly racing, Then death forgotten loses all its fear, But let the strife through months of anguish lengthen, And all be silence save our lonely sigh. Be with us, God, our frightened souls to strengthen -- 'Twas so MacSwiney taught us how to die. Oh, all too swift was Barry's sacred scaffold, And swift the guns their gifts to Plunkett sped, And hurried graves have often tyrants baffled, When Ireland calls to fame her patriot dead. But here was one who clung to Death's embraces, Who, drop by drop, let all his life go by; Dark Rosaleen, how gently are thy graces! For thee he dared Death's longest death to die. All chains are chains, tho' fashioned fair and golden, And Eire's race must never more be slaves. The hearts of heroes all our hearts embolden, To win our freedom or to dig our graves. Who nurtures now a spirit that is craven? Who fears to lift unshackled hands on high? Who will not tread the shining path to Heaven? MacSwiney's there, who taught us how to die. ENGLAND'S GALLOWS TREE SONG LYRICS - Brian Na Banban 'Tis long since Father Sheehy gave his life in dark Clonmel; 'Tis long since Willie Neilson served the cause he loved so well; 'Tis long since Emmet fought and died his native land to free. And still brave men must climb the stair of England's gallows tree When Allen, Larkin and O'Brien their noble lives laid down, We swore that from this land we'd drive the forces of the Crown But Barry and his comrades died with Ireland still unfree; And now two more have climbed the stair of England's gallows tree Brave Peter Barnes faced his foes with calmness on his face, And James MacCormick voiced once more the brav'ry of the race"Your gibbets and your jail," he cried, "no terrors have for me. For Ireland's cause I'll proudly die on England's gallows tree ! " "No crime was ours; we fought the fight 'mongst Ireland's ruthless Because within young Irish hearts the freedom flame still glows. God bless our land! God bless the men who'll fight and die as we. In dungeon dark, in war's red rout, or on the gallows tree ! " The foeman's fear, the foeman's hate have swept their lives away. And slaves in Ireland helped that foe to hound the I.R.A. Coercion stalks the Irish land 'gainst all who'd set her free; Above her looms the shadow dark of England's gallows tree. But raise your hearts! for martyrs' blood was never shed in vain. The Day will dawn, the Call will come, and men will march again ! The free Republic, proud and strong, from shore to shore we'll see The true revenge for all who died on England's gallows tree! A BALLAD OF BRAVE MEN - Brian Na Banban Come all ye men of Eireann, from Antrim to Berehaven, And hear a song of brave men who died for you and me; The slave may call them felons, but as comrades of Lord Edward, They yet shall be remembered when their native land is free. On a day that we'll remember --- on the Sixth Day of September, In the dark year Nineteen Forty -- in the prison of Mountjoy. The bond-slave of the foeman — vile traitors to their own land - Two noble Irish soldiers did slaughter and destroy. Patrick McGrath of Dublin, and Thomas Harte of Lurgan, True sons of the Republic for which our martyrs died; They faced, with hearts unquailing, the guns of the invader And for evermore in Eirinn we will think of them with pride. Because they stood with Emmet, with Tone and with Lord Edward With the Martyred Three of Manchester and the heroes of our day. Because they fought like true men, the tools of England slew them, And they sleep with Kevin Barry [ lyrics ] in the lonely prison clay. We'll tell with pride their story, we'll shrine their names in glory, When dawns our day of triumph o'er the tyrant and the slave; When the Truth shines forth in splendor then our glad hearts will remember That the comrades of Lord Edward are the glory of the Gad! INNISCARRA MY HOME BY THE LEE LYRICS (The Exile's Return) John Fitzgerald I have wander'd, an exile, 'mid cold-hearted strangers, Far, far from my home and the beautiful Lee; I have struggled alone through all sorrows and dangers And braved ev'ry fate on the land and the sea. Through Columbia's wild forests, or Ind's spicey bowers On the great foreign rivers whose sands are of gold. I have sighed for thee still, 'mid the birds and the flowers I have loved thee, and will, till this heart shall grow cold I have rov'd with fair maidens with dark flowing tresse And beautiful eyes have looked kindly on me, But I thought with regret of the smiles and caresses Of a fair-haired young maiden that dwelt by the Lee. I have come back again, but she's not in her bower, Where the river flows past, with its calm tiny wave; I have called her in vain, for the ivy-crown'd tower Of sweet Inniscarra o'er-shadows her grave. The home of my childhood to ruin is falling, The lov'd ones that blest it shall greet me no more; Yet I gaze on it still, joyous visions recalling, Though the long grass has grown on the step of the door I shall rest with them soon, with the shamrock above me From my dear native Cork never more shall I roam, ' Till I'm laid in the grave with the dear ones that lo As in death they shall welcome their wanderer home Old Wexford Rebel Songs , these three songs from Wexford are dedicated to the memory of John Crean, Patrick Hogan and James Parle who gave their lives for Ireland and were executed on 13th March 1923 at Wexford Barracks by Free state forces, all three were shot. The men were part of a ''Flying Column'' of 6 men. They were captured in a house in Horestown,Co Wexford. They sought shelter here from the hills and valleys where they roamed. The house was owned by an ex British Army Major and the servent girl provided the I.R.A. men with food. As the took shelter in the loft of the house the Free State Soldiers burst in and took the men by surprise.The three were taken by lorry to Wexford Barracks.Five men in total were taken, they were James Parle, William Parle,John Crean, Murt Walsh and Patrick Hogan, the sixth man Barney Cosgrave had earler left the house and on his return he saw his comrades been taken away in the lorry,. Barney was unable to help and made his escape. Three days later all five men were charged with possession of firearms without authority. A few weeks later James Parle, John Crean and Patrick Hogan were among 50 other prisoners in the barracks when their names were called out to be told they would be shot at eight o'clock in the morning. [March 12th]
Before the men were executed the asked that no reprisals be carried out by Wexford Republicans. At 8am Tuesday March 13 the men were blindfolded and taken to the place of execution accompanied by two priests. There they stood beside a large open grave and were shot. Patrick died instantly, his comrades lingered on after being shot until a soldier finished them off with a shot in the ear. The men were placed in the three coffins that were beside the open grave and then laid to rest with the last rites given by the priests. BALLAD OF PARLE CREANE AND HOGAN- Irish Rebel Song As the cold grey dawn was breaking over ancient Wexford town Three patriotic heroes were led forth in fetters bound Because they love their country, and served her night and day And before they faced the rifles this is what those boys did say. Chorus Take away the blood-stained bandage [ lyrics ] from off an Irish brow. We fought and bled for Ireland and will not skirk it now We have helped her in her struggle, we answered to her call And because we loved her freedom, we are placed against the wall. Jim Parle from Clover Valley, John Creane from Tagmon Pat Hogan from old Wexford, a true born Irish son, They have sprinkled our dear shamrock with their blood for freedom's day And before they faced the rifles this is what those boys did say. Chorus Parle - Crean Hogan From Wexford Song Lyrics The mourners weep for the three who sleep by the Slaney's silvery stream In Crosstown lone, there's a Celtic stone o'er an honored plot so green By that rebel tomb you'll know the doom of Parle, Hogan and Creanr Let history tell, each victim fell by the Treaty's cruel reign. In the battlefield they would not yield in the rebel ranks they trod, They were caught and tried, and each one died shot by the firing squad Ye mourners weep for the three who sleep where we kneel each Easter, To pledge anew that we'll be true to all who nobly died. If some forget the rebel plot in Crosstown's churchyard old Now let them pause, upon the cause of every rebel bold Oh, where's the gain,'t was all in vain, the hand of vile duress Took the youthful three, sad sight to see with vengeance to oppress Oh, Wexford Jail speak now your tale, each cell looks grim and cold Oh, let me tell, each hero fell defending Erin old. Did their deaths not cry to Justice high ere that court in Wexford jail With the firing squad sent each soul to God, while friends did weep and wail Had I seen them fall, for revenge I'd call, though 'tis better indeed to pray Yet my blood would boil, 'cause on Irish soil, they were done to death one• day. And oh, ye three, full of life and glee with many a year to live With hearts so brave, by an early grave did you speak that word 'forgive mid radiant light and hopes so bright what mortal ere could stand With no crime here, but his country dear and forgive the killing hand. And now you three we'll honour thee and your memory shall not fade Since 't was your lot in the rebel plot your bodies to be laid. In peace you sleep by the Slaney deep and while that stream do roll On Wexford's sod we'll pray to God, for mercy on each soul. Here's To Their Memory - Wexford Rebel Song Lyrics As I passed Wexford jail, on a bright summer evening My heart missed a beat as I gazed on the scene. Where three gallant heroes Parle, Creane, and Hogan Died for old Ireland, the orange, white and green. T'was on a March morning they were led from their pri.ti'n Young Hogan from Wexford tall and proud was his franir He was placed in the centre, his comrades beside him For the guns of the soldiers the better to aim. He died in that first hail of shots from the rifle While our other two heroes fell twisted with pain As their priests knelt to help them in their last dying moment,. Parle cried out bravely: "Shoot us again!". With two bullets for Creane, and two for his comrades ' The Free Stater's Captain quickly obliged Then their bodies were buried in that old Wexford Courtyard For the love of their country they'd fought and they'd died. It was from Major Lakin's these young men were captured As they fought while their captain made his daring escape O'er the hills and the fields Barney Cosgrave retreated To rejoin his brigade and return to the fray. On the night 'fore they died Parle, Creane and young Hogan In the cells of their prison lay calm and serene They requested their priests take these words to their parents "Say we died for old Ireland, the orange, white and green. So farewell to our heroes so young yet so youthful Two in their twenties and one just eighteen May their memories live on and their cause never falter For they died for old Ireland the orange, white and green. Words and music by Sean O'Farrrell The Harp Of Old Erin Irish Rebel Song Lyrics Dedicated to Charles J. MURPHY, 1st. Lieut, Scott Life-Guard, N. Y, by his sincere friend, Thomas KEAN. Afr: St. Patrick's Day. The war trump has sounded, our rights are in danger : Shall the brave sons of Erin be deaf to the call, When freedom demands of both native and stranger, Their nid, lest the greatest of nations should fall ? Shall this banner so dear to the exiled of the Gael, By traitors and rebels, in anarchy's school, Be trailed in the dust, disgraced in the vile, While our people, the sov'reign, in equity rule! No : I swear by the love that we bent our old Sireland, And the vows we have pledged to this home of the free, As we'd shen the our words in the foes of dentr Ireland, We will use them as freely 'gainst traitors to thee: Need we fear for our cause, when true hearts uphold it! See the men of all nations now march to the wars: And shall Erin's stout hearts stand by and behold it, Nor strike in their might for the Banner of Stars! No, no, with their life's blood they'll guard the rich treasure Bee how they respond to the call, shoulder arms" Though endeared by those sacred ties, with love beyond mes of boom-friends, children, and beauty's sweet charms, (suro, Yet, they leave all behind, and equip for the battle. Between freedom and rapine, like true sons of Mars, They'll conquer though traitors their cannon may rattle, And bring back triumphant the Banner of Stars. Oh ! long may car flings wave in Union together, And the harp of green Erin still kiss the same breeze And brave ev'ry storm, that beclouds the fair weather, Till oar harp, like the Stars, floats o'er rivers and seas God prosper manly soul heart, on both land and open, That goes in defiance of danger and scars, And send them safe home, to their wives and their sweetheart With the harp of old Erin and Banner of Stars. Eileen Og [ Savourneen Deelish ] lyrics Ah! the moment was sad, when my Love and I parted.. Savourneen deelish Eileen oge! As I kis'd off her fears, I was nigh broken-hearted.. Savourneen deelish Eileon ogel Wan was her cheek which hung on my shoulder; Damp was her hand, no marble was colder ; I felt that again I should never behold her, Savoureen deelish Eileen oge When the word of command put our men into motion, Savonineen deelish Eileen oge! I backled up my kanpsack to cross the wide Ocean, Savourneen deelish Eileen oge! Brisk were our troops, all roaring like thunder, Pleased with their voyage, impatient for plunder ; My boom with grief was almost torn asunder, Savourncen deelish Eiloen oge! Long I fought for my Country, far, far from my true love, Savourneen declish Eileen oge! All my pay and my bonaty I hoarded for you, Love, Savoureen declish Eileen oge! But peace was proclaim'd, I escap'd from the slaughter, Landed at home, my sweet girl I sought her : But sorrow, alas! to a cold gruve had brought her, Savoureen deelish Elleen oge ! She is gone now, alas I and thus left me forlorn, Savourueen deelish Eileen oge! I'll take to the desart, for ever I'll mour, Savoureen deelislı Eileen oge! Not the warbling throng, with the notes so charming, Never shall soothe my grief or mourning; But, in silent solitude, sighing for my darling, Savoureen deelis Eileen oge! Give Me The Flag Of Old Ireland, For It's Next To The Red White And Blue
Lyrics by J.J. Turner with the music by J.W. Jerreld A song devoted to the cause of Irish liberty. 1911. 'Twas on the seventeenth of March, the weather it was fire, With bands a-playing Irish airs, each man took place in line The big parade came down the street, led by bold Mick McEvoy The ancient order in the lead, I heard the people say Chorus Give me the flag of old Ireland, sweet little isle o'or the sea Take down the red that is waving, say that her soil shall be free Praises we sing to our leaders, and to all sons good and true Give me the flag of old Ireland, for it's next to the Red White and Blue. The people of this little isle with hills and valleys green Must throw the yoke of bondage off and live in peace serene And when that time shall come at last we'll celebrate the day Then with Eagles in the lead you'll hear the people say Repeat chorus Help Ireland With Her Cause
Lyrics and the music written by A. Frazzini. 1920. Somewhere a new day is dawning, clear as the sky up above Just like a fair summer's morning, Ireland will be made to love. Chorus. Ireland dear never fear, some day you'll have your way Ireland dear the time is near, you'll be free from slavery Though your sad, you'll be glad, to win this victory Though you're not free, you soon will be, help Ireland win her cause. Fair as the shamrock is Ireland, true as the sunsets I see Some day she'll be her own mother land, after this great victory. Here's To Old Ireland.
Lyrics and music written by G. Longmuir.1921. I love dear old Ireland, the place I was born I left it a short time ago, But I promised my sweet heart that I would return And help to make old Ireland grow There's no spot on the earth that is dearer to me If I only could help to make Ireland free. Chorus So here's to old Ireland her hills and her glens Her bogs and Killarneys, her gallant young men Her lassies as brave as her men ever could be They will help with their blarney to make Ireland free. I long for to see her the farther I roam My heart beats for Ireland my home Where the spirit of freedom was cradlen in mirth The shamrock grows green on the turf The smile on her face makes my heart beat with glee We will all feel so happy when Ireland is free. |
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THE REBEL ROVER
As I roved out one Summer's morning I met a maiden of beauty rare -- The sweet wild roses, the braes adorning Not half so sweet are, not half so fair. The brown thrush singing when the sun is sinkin The blackbird piping when the sun is down. And the little stars in the sky a-twinkling, Sang not so sweetly as this colleen dun "Oh, brown tressed maiden of rarest beauty, You've won my heart on this summer day. To love you always will be my duty, If you, my fair one, won't say me nay." "Young man," she answered, "you are a strange And I will ne'er give my heart and hand To any rover or to any ranger Who will not fight for his native land." "In the fields of France has my father battled. My brothers, too, 'neath the fleur-de-lis, Where the sabres flashed and the cannons rattle Struck many a blow to set Ireland free, And the English flag oft' sank before them, But their graves are made in a foreign strai And sad and lonely do I deplore them Who died away from their native land." "Oh, bright eyed maiden, the hours I'm counti nk 'Till the summons comes to the brave and In And the green flag flies over plain and mountain. And pikes are flashing, and muskets, too. And then astoreen, when the battle's over I'll come and ask for your heart and hand And if I fall, forget not the rover, Who died for you and his native land." in RORY OF THE HILL
"That rake up near the rafters, why leave it there so long? The handle, of the best of ash, is smooth, and straight, and strong: And, mother, will you tell me, why did my father frown, When to make the hay, in summer-time, I climbed to take it down?" She looked into her husband's eyes, while her own with light did fill, "You'll shortly know the reason, boy!" said Rory of the Hill. The midnight moon is lighting up the slopes of Sliabh na mBan [ lyrics ] - Whose foot affrights the startled hares so long before the dawn? He stopped just where the Anner's stream winds up the woods a-near, Then whistled low and looked around to see the coast was clear. A sheeling door flew open — in he stepped with right good will "God save all here, and bless your work," said Rory of the Hill. Right hearty was the welcome that greeted him, I ween, For years gone by he fully proved how well he loved the Green; And there was one among them who grasped him by the hand - One who through all the weary time roamed on a foreign strand; He brought them news from gallant friends that made their heart-strings thrill "My SOUL! I never doubted them! " said Rory of the Hill. They sat around the humble board 'till dawning of the day, And yet no song nor shout I heard — no revelers were they: Some brows flushed red with gladness, while some were grimly pale; But pale or red, from out those eyes flashed souls that never quail! "And sing us now about the vow they swore for to fulfil" "You'll read it yet in History," said Rory of the Hill. Next day the ashen handle, he took down from where it hung, The toothed rake, full scornfully, into the fire he flung; And in its stead a shining blade is gleaming once again - (Oh for a hundred thousand of such weapons and such men!) Right soldierly he wielded it, and, going through his drill, "Attention" — "charge" — "front, point" — "advance!" cried Rory of the Hill. FLAG OF SINN FEIN SONG LYRICS - Conleith Martin They raised a great standard of hope for the nation, Their strong arms bracing its staff to the breeze, And proudly they bore it mid scenes of elation Defending it bravely where foes would it seize. Soon over each town and each village 'twas waving, In far-scattered hamlets on hillside and plain, And the young men of Ireland arose from their slaving To march and to fight 'neath the flag of Sinn Fein. When Pearse led his comrades that day by the Liffey Behind it they marched with a soldierly mien, And soon over Dublin's great fortress 'twas flying The hope of the nation, White, Orange and Green [ lyrics ]. Beneath it fought men who were proud to be shedding Their blood, ever mindful 'twould not flow in vain, Each man a bridegroom at Dark Rosaleen's wedding As bravely they died 'neath the flag of Sinn Fein. In the fresh breeze of morning it floated in glory, In the lull of the night by its staff it reclined, In the hour of surrender — no hand free to save it Lead-sprayed and shell-torn to the flames 'twas consigned. Through the night the fire laboured, dawn saw the roof caving Then the smoke cleared away and the sun shone again. And above the gaunt ruin, still defiantly waving Was that battle-scarred emblem, the flag of Sinn Fein. Lament Of The Irish Emigrant
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin', long ago, when first you were my bride, The corn was springin' fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high. And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-light in your eye, The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath, warm on i cheek, And I still keep list'nin' for the words you never more will speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands near The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary and my step might break your rest For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast I'm very lonely now, Mary, for the poor make no new friends; But 0 they love the better still, the few our Father sends! And you were all I had, Mary, my blessin' and my pride! There's nothin' left to care for now, since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, that still kept hopin' on When the trust in God had left my soul, and my arm's young streng was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, and the kind look on your bra I bless you, Mary, for that same, though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile when your heart was fit to break. When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, and you hid it for my sake I bless you for the pleasant word, when your heart was sad and sore I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, where grief can't reach you more I'm biddin' you a long farewell, my Mary -- kind and true! But I'll not forget you, darling, in the land I'm goin' to; They say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always But I'll not forget old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair! And often in those grand old woods I'll sit and shut my eyes. And my heart will travel back again to the place where Mary lies; And I'll think I see the little stile where we sat side by side; And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn where first you my bride. Songwriter HELEN SELINA, LADY Dufferin Clashmealcon Caves-Irish Civil War Song
It being on a Sunday morning early in the month of spring, The rifle shots rang in their ears, the chapel bell did ring, But louder still their shots rang out, you could hear the thunder roar, As the ambush it was taking place down by the Shannon shore. In Dunfort's cave they took their stand, the last in Ireland's rights, Three days and nights with rapid fire they nobly held the fight, Till worn out without relief they did at length give o'er And they gave their lives for Ireland down by the Shannon shore. McGrath and Shea were washed away as the foaming tide did rise, Their comrades knew that they were doomed when they heard their drowning cries, They knew they could not hold the fight, being then reduced to four, And they yielded to their enemies down by the Shannon shore. Ned Greaney, Mac and Hathaway in irons soon were bound And taken off to Tralee jail, where guilty they were found, They were placed before the firing squad, which quickly on them poured, And now they sleep in martyrs' graves down by the Shannon shore. Their captain was a brave young man with a heart both light and bold It was said he knew that death was due as soon as he tied the rope, Timothy Lyons it was his name from a place called Garranagore And he too met his doom in his youthful bloom, down by the Shannon shore. Their comrades sorely miss them gone, their loss they now deplore, When strangers came to view the cave and roam along the shore, There to enjoy the pleasant time while other heats feel sore, And that will be for years to come down by the Shannon shore. And now to end this mournful rime, I have no more to say, The cave will be their monument and that for many a day. May God reward these guileless souls and blessing on them pour, Console their friends who miss them gone, down by the Shannon shore, THE ORANGEMAN'S GALWAY BAY Sang to the tune of Galway Bay Maybe some day I'll go back to dear old Ulster, Be it only on the twelfth day of July. To see once more the Orangemen in procession, And watch those loyal men go marching by. To see again King William on the banner, Our gracious Queen sown on the other side. Or to sit beside Craigavon on the platform, When he tells us how the men of Derry died. The winds that blow across the seas from Ulster, Are perfumed with Orange lilies as they blow. And the men who honour Aughrim and Boyne waters, Speak a language that the Fenians do not know. Yet the Fenians always try to teach us their ways, And scorn us for being what we are. But we want no Fenian Pope or Holy Water, No Surrender' is our watchword near and far. And if there's going to be a fight hereafter, And somehow soon sure there's going to be. We'll make the Fenian's blood flow just like water Down Belfast Lough into the Irish Sea. THE WILD HAZEL GLEN (A '98 Irish rebel song Song) The Yeomen trooped down on the village, Red ruin they left in their trail. And the flames licked the rooftops at midnight, Like banners they streamed on the gale. The groans and the- shrieks of the dying, Woke the echoes again and again, And the 'caoines' were the wail of the banshee, That night in the Wild Hazel Glen. Young Diarmuid was bold as an eagle, He was chief of the patriot band; Who were watching far-off on the hillside Awaiting the clash on the land. And when morning its glories were beaming, O'er the moorland at long Carrig Fen, They marched with the pike blades a-gleaming A-down through the Wild Hazel Glen. They swept like the rain-swollen torrent, Death 'slept on each keen-pointed blade, And their bosoms were panting for vengeance, For the sisters and sweethearts betrayed. And the wives and the fathers and mothers That lay shroudless and coffinless then, And the homes that were blackened and roofless That morn in the Wild Hazel Glen. But sad are the hearts that loved Diarmuid, For he fell in the vanguard that day; But whenever his rifle was levelled, A yeoman went down in the fray. Old Ireland you never had martyrs More true than the frieze-coated men, Whose life-blood has reddened our altars Down many a Wild Hazel Glen. Joseph McKelvey was from Stewartstown Co.Tyrone late of Cyprus Street Belfast, Captured at the four courts and was executed in Mountjoy Jail December 8th 1922. Buried in Milltown cemetery Belfast. Joe Mc Kelvey song lyrics - a tribute 0, Give him a place among Ulster's dead Who gave battle for Ireland's weal? Who have fought and died to free this land From the English tyrant's heel. The true and brave who in every age Came thronging at Freedom's call, McKelvey stood where they shed their blood- He remembered and loved them all. From Breffni's lakes up to Antrim's glens, Through Derry and green Tir Eoghain; From the fields of Down to Lock Swilly's waves, From Cuailene to Inis Eoghain; To every spot that had seen the Gael And their English foemen fall, McKelvey sped on a soldier's quest- He knew them and loved them all. He was lover of Neilson and Betsy Gray, Of McCracken and brave Munro; Of Hope and On and of Sean and Eoghan, And of Aodh 0 Domhnaill Ruadh. In town and vale he told their tale, And cried to his comrades all Their faith to keep and their foes to sweep From the fair land of Inis Fail. With Barrett, O'Connor and Mellows brave They killed him at dawn of day, Because he was true to his country's cause And a foe to the Saxon sway. For the truth they died; they are Ireland's pride From Ciarraidhe to Dun na nGall; McKelvey is ours till the end of Time, Rut we honour them all Joe McKelvey Rebel Song Song Lyrics Of Niall Plunkett O'Boyle - Michael McGinley
(Killed in action — Wicklow, 1922) They laid him to rest, by the rim of the ocean, Near the home of his fathers, they laid him to rest. Old Ireland he loved, with true faith and devotion, He fought and he died for the Cause he loved best. When Ireland called forth her true sons of the heathc O'Boyle was the foremost to answer the call. The sons of the Rosses he banded together, To drive the oppressor from Dark Donegal. How bravely he fought with the foe all around him ' Till alone and outnumbered, a captive he fell. To the bastille at Newgate, a prisoner they bore him He escaped thro' a tunnell and bade them farewell. Again on the hillside, undaunted and daring, With all hope abandoned, he turned on the foe. "Long live the Republic," his words rang out clearly, The guns thundered forth and O'Boyle was laid low Now bravely he ' sleeps by the rim of the ocean, Nor wind, nor tempest, his slumber can spoil. Long, long we'll remember with faith and devotion, The fate of our chieftain, Niall Plunkett O'Boyle. IN REMEMBRANCE Rebel Song By Domhnall O'Cathail 'Twas yesterday I saw them marching down the glen, A company full beautiful and brave; A company of Ireland's fairest fighting men, Marching quick and steady to the grave. No banner blazed about them but the glory of their hills, No trumpet had to sound them to the fray, But Freedom's voiceless calling in the rich, red blood that thrills The true-man to the Dawning of the Day [ lyrics ]. 'Twas yesterday I blest them on the road they'll march no more, For they're sleeping in the Sunset down below. With their faces to the Eastward, like the Chivalry of yore, To the Eastward full of promise — and the foe. But I'll keep them in my dreaming with a love that none shall say - That company full and beautiful and brave - And I'll see them as I saw them, laughing, yesterday, Marching quick and steady to the grave. PETER CROWLEY Irish Rebel Song Lyrics As I roamed out one evening in the holy month of June, I strayed into an old churchyard, to view a new built tomb. I overheard an old man say, as tears rolled from his eyes, Its underneath that cold green sod, brave Peter Crowley lies. Then tell me Peter Crowley, come tell me, tell me true Who stepped into Kilclooney Wood that day along with you; Who stood behind that broad oak tree, and fired that signal gun, Who fought and died for Ireland, 'twas you my darling so. The man who fired the signal went to his lone abode, For many a mile he shouldered it a dark and dreary road. Stiff and cold its there you lay astoreen gal machree, Because you were a Fenian bold and fought for liberty. And now to conclude and finish as I have no more to say, May the Almighty and Eternal God soon raise you from your clay; With a thousand men at your command and they both loyal and true, To conquer English, Dutch and Dane, as Irishmen could do. CEANN DUBH DILIS -O Dark Head written by William Rooney
O Dear Dark Head, bowed low in death's black sorrow, Let not thy heart be tramelled in despair; Lift, lift thine eyes unto the radiant morrow, And wait the light that surely shall break there. What, though the grave hath closed about thy dearest, All are not gone that love thee, nor all fled; And though thine own sweet tongue thou seldom hearest, Yet shall it ring again, 0 Dear Dark Head. O Dear Dark Head that mourneth by the waters, Crooning a caoineadh for the countless graves Of valliant sons and brave true-hearted daughters, Waiting the angel's trump beneath the waves. Take from each rising sun some ray to cheer thee, Some gleam of glory from each sunset red; They bring an hour all close and closer near thee, Thy mantle's myriad folds, 0 Dear Dark Head. O Dear Dark Head, though but the curlew's screaming Wakens the echoes of the hill and glen; Yet shalt thou see once more the bright steel gleaming, Yet shalt thou hear again the tramp of men; And though their father's fate be theirs, shall others With hearts as faithful still that pathway read, 'Till we have set, oh! mother dear of mothers, A nation's crown upon thy Dear Dark Head. O Dear Dark Head, let not thy waiting daunt thee, The future if thou wiliest can be thine; The past can summon up no shades to haunt thee, Of perjured faith or desecrated shrine; Lift, lift thy heart then; for each year of mourning, Each sigh you breathed, every tear you shed, There yet shall be a jewel bright adorning Thy mantle's myriad folds, 0 Dear Dark Head. WILLIAM ROONEY Are You From Ireland
Lyrics and music by Thomas Egan Are you from Ireland, that's the question we hear on every side From Shannon Shore to Dublin Town, across the ocean far and wide At New York Bay what will you say ? when miss Liberty smiles on you You'll hail the dear Red White And Blue, and yet your Irish true and true. Chorus Are you from Ireland that grand old Sireland With her president and Irish parliament Show your colours proudly, sing her praises loudly Brave Emmet or McSweeney never bent Lets raise the roof now, 'tis well you know how Tell the world today the way you stand Let this be our battle cry, Ireland forever we'll never say die If your from Ireland give me your hand. Yes We're from Ireland is the answer from each loyal Irish heart But tell us how to serve the cause, to speed the day to do our part Wave high the Gold, the White and Green at the front of the bloodiest fray To steel the arm and cheer the way, of fighting Kelly, Burke and Shay If They Don't Want The Irish In Ireland. Irish Rebel Song Lyrics
The lyrics are by Eugene West with music by Clyde Roland Irish war of independence song from 1920. Ireland they say your heart is aching, Ireland I hear your heart is breaking And I know why, just why you cry, but you've the grit that cannot die And here's the proclamation, Extended by every nation. Chorus If They Don't Want The Irish In Ireland, if they don't let old Ireland alone Every one every son that is Irish, will depart, he will start into roam And there's no land on earth he's not welcome, sure the whole world will greet him with cheer If They Don't Want The Irish In Ireland, lets bring them over here. Ireland some day you will be cheerful, Ireland some day you won't be tearful Stand by your right with all your might, and in good time they'll see the light And here's the invitation, extended by every nation. The Irish Volunteer
Words and music by Shaun O'Farrell, Recorded by Shaun O'Farrell I sing you a song of a maiden fair, And her lover fond and true, Who loved the land that gave them birth Her valleys, mountains blue She went at the break of an Irish day To meet her lover dear For he was her darling bouchal-og An Irish volunteer Dear love she cried my heart delights Is the colour that you wear And the sun shines bright on your gallant form And the rifle brown you bear The tyrant frown when they see thee nigh And tremble them with fear For they know the strength of your strong hand My Irish volunteer. Sweetheart, sweetheart I must leave thee now To join my comrades true When the dawn breaks in our Irish sky We meet the Saxon crew So fare thee well my own true love For the cause I love so dear Till our flag floats free over Dublin Town Said the Irish Volunteer An outlawed man in his native land He fought with right good cheer To keep the tri-colour waving high Like an Irish volunteer. There's another song on the site with the name '' The Irish Volunteer which is here. |
I Had A Dream That Ireland Was Free. Irish Rebel Song Lyrics
The lyrics are by Gordon Johnson with music by Samue S. Krams
and recorded by Irish tenor Thomas Egan. Published in 1917 in America.
Last night when God's bright stars were all gleaming,
I fell asleep and dreamed a wonderous dream
T'was then my longing Spirit crossed the sea on the wings of old memories
It seemed that old Erin was herself once more,
Her Sainted Patrick blessed her far green shore,
I knelt again as in days of old on that Island dearer than Gold
Chorus
I had a dream Ireland was free among the nations of the earth
I heard her voice in the night calling me, come back to Ireland thy birth
I saw a million Shamrocks raised aloft by holy hands
The old Green Flag of Erin kissed by shinning Angel hands
I had a dream that Ireland was free, and Heaven had come down on earth.
I walked in ancient Tara's Minstrel Hall and heard the wild old bag pipes music fall.
Sweet Colleens docked the streets with banners and sang old songs from morning 'till night
My dear old mother came from far off skies, the Golden sunshine in her soft blue eyes
She Whispered sweet in my listening ear, 'tis the grand day we prayed for dear.
The lyrics are by Gordon Johnson with music by Samue S. Krams
and recorded by Irish tenor Thomas Egan. Published in 1917 in America.
Last night when God's bright stars were all gleaming,
I fell asleep and dreamed a wonderous dream
T'was then my longing Spirit crossed the sea on the wings of old memories
It seemed that old Erin was herself once more,
Her Sainted Patrick blessed her far green shore,
I knelt again as in days of old on that Island dearer than Gold
Chorus
I had a dream Ireland was free among the nations of the earth
I heard her voice in the night calling me, come back to Ireland thy birth
I saw a million Shamrocks raised aloft by holy hands
The old Green Flag of Erin kissed by shinning Angel hands
I had a dream that Ireland was free, and Heaven had come down on earth.
I walked in ancient Tara's Minstrel Hall and heard the wild old bag pipes music fall.
Sweet Colleens docked the streets with banners and sang old songs from morning 'till night
My dear old mother came from far off skies, the Golden sunshine in her soft blue eyes
She Whispered sweet in my listening ear, 'tis the grand day we prayed for dear.