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Amhrán na bhFiann [ National Anthem ]
(click to hear - 10 KB only)

Seo dhibh a cháirde duan Óglaigh,
Cathréimeach briomhar ceolmhar,
Ár dtinte cnámh go buacach táid,
'S an spéir go min réaltogach
Is fonnmhar faobhrach sinn chun gleo
'S go tiúnmhar glé roimh thíocht do'n ló
Fé chiúnas chaomh na hoiche ar seol:
Seo libh canaídh Amhrán na bhFiann.

Curfá:
Sinne Fianna Fáil
Atá faoi gheall ag Éirinn,
Buíon dár slua
Thar toinn do ráinig chugainn,
Faoi mhóid bheith saor.
Sean-tír sinsear feasta
Ní fhagfar faoin tiorán ná faoin tráil
Anocht a théam sa bhearna bhaoil,
Le gean ar Ghaeil chun báis nó saoil
Le guna scréach faoi lámhach na bpiléar
Seo libh canaíg Amhrán na bhFiann.

Cois bánta réidhe, ar árdaibh sléibhe,
Ba bhuachach ár sinsir romhainn,
Ag lámhach go tréan fé'n sár-bhrat séin
Tá thuas sa ghaoith go seolta
Ba dhúchas riamh d'ár gcine cháidh
Gan iompáil siar ó imirt áir,
'S ag siúl mar iad i gcoinne námhad
Seo libh, canaídh Amhrán na bhFiann.

A bhuíon nách fann d'fhuil Ghaeil is Gall,
Sin breacadh lae na saoirse,
Ta scéimhle 's scanradh i gcroíthe namhad,
Roimh ranna laochra ár dtire.
Ár dtinte is tréith gan spréach anois,
Sin luisne ghlé san spéir anoir,
'S an bíobha i raon na bpiléar agaibh:
Seo libh, canaídh Amhrán na bh Fiann.

Soldier's Song [ Translation ]

We'll sing song, a soldier's song,
With cheering rousing chorus,
As round our blazing fires we throng,
The starry heavens o'er us;
Impatient for the coming fight,
And as we wait the morning's light,
Here in the silence of the night,
We'll chant a soldier's song.

Chorus:
Soldiers are we
whose lives are pledged to Ireland;
Some have come
from a land beyond the wave.
Sworn to be free,
No more our ancient sire land
Shall shelter the despot or the slave.
Tonight we man the gap of danger
In Erin's cause, come woe or weal
'Mid cannons' roar and rifles peal,
We'll chant a soldier's song.

In valley green, on towering crag,
Our fathers fought before us,
And conquered 'neath the same old flag
That's proudly floating o'er us.
We're children of a fighting race,
That never yet has known disgrace,
And as we march, the foe to face,
We'll chant a soldier's song.

Sons of the Gael! Men of the Pale!
The long watched day is breaking;
The serried ranks of Inisfail
Shall set the Tyrant quaking.
Our camp fires now are burning low;
See in the east a silv'ry glow,
Out yonder waits the Saxon foe,
So chant a soldier's song.


SAINT PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN Go to the top of this page.

Saint Patrick was a gentleman, he came from decent people,
In Dublin town he built a church and on it put a steeple
His father was a Callahan, his mother was a Grady,
His aunt was O'Shaughnessy and uncle he was Brady.

Success to bold Saint Patrick's fist, he was a Saint so clever,
He gave the snakes an awful twist and banished them forever
There's not a smile in Ireland's isle where the dirty vermin musters
Were'er he puts his dear forefoot he murder'd them in clusters
The toads went hop, the frogs went plop, slap dash into the water
And the beasts committed suicide to save themselves from slaughter.

Nine hundred thousand vipes blue he charm'd with sweet discourses
And dined on them at Killaloo an' in the second courses
When blindworms crawling on the grass disgusted all the nation
He gave them a rise and open'd their eyes to a sense of their situation.

The Wicklow hills are very high and so's the hill of Howth, sir
But there's a hill much higher, still, Ay, higher then them both, sir
And it was on the top of his hill, Saint Patrick preach'd the "Sarmint"
That drove the frogs into the bogs and bothered all the "varmint".


THE ROCKY ROAD TO DUBLIN Go to the top of this page.

In the merry month of June from me home I started,
Left the girls of Tuam, severely broken hearted,
saluted father dear, kissed me darlin' mother,
drank a pint of beer, me grief and tears to smother
then off to reap the corn, leave where I was born,
cut a stout black thorn to banish ghost and goblin
a bran' new pair of brogues, rattled o'er the bogs
frightened all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin.

Chorus:
One two three four five
Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road
And all the way to Dublin
Whack fol lol de ra

In Mullingar that night I rested limbs so weary
Started by daylight next morning bright and early
Took a drop o' the pure to keep me heart from sinking
That's an Irishman's cure when e'er he's on for drinking.
See the lassies smile, laughing all the while
At my daring style, 'twould set your heart a-bubbin'
They asked if I was hired, wages I required
Till I was almost tired on the rocky road to Dublin.

In Dublin next arrived I thought it such a pity
To be so soon deprived a view of that fine city
When I took a stroll all among the quality
Me bundle it was stole in a neat locality
Something crossed me mind, then I looked behind
No bundle could I find on me stick a-wobblin'
Enquiring for the rouge, they said my Connaught brogue
Wasn't much in vogue on the rocky road to Dublin.

From there I got away, me spirits never failing
Landed on the quay as the ship was sailing
Captain at me roared, said that no room had he
When I jumped abroad, a cabin found for Paddy
Down among the pigs I played some funny rigs
Danced some hearty jigs, the water 'round me bubblin'
When off Holyhead I wished myself was dead
Or better far instead, on the rocky road to Dublin.

The boys of Liverpool, when we safely landed
Called myself a fool, I could no longer stand it
Blood began to boil, temper I was losing
Poor old Erin's Isle they began abusing
"Hurrah, me boys!" says I, me shillegan I let fly
Galway boys were by and saw I was a-hobblin'
Then with load "Hurray!" they joined in the affray
Quickly cleared the way, on the rocky road to Dublin.


IRISH ROVER Go to the top of this page.

On The Fourth of July, 1806
We set sail from the sweet cove of Cork
We were sailing away with a cargo of bricks
For the grand city hall in New York.
'Twas a wonderful craft she was rigged fore and aft
And oh, how the wild winds drove her
She stood several blasts, she had twenty-three masts
And they called her the Irish Rover.

We had one million bags of the best Sligo rags
We had two million barrels of stone
We had three million sides of old blind horses hides
We had four million barrels of bones.
We had five million hogs and six million dogs
And seven million barrels of porter,
We had eight million bales of old nanny-goat' tails
In the hold of the Irish Rover.

There was awl Mickey Coote who played hard on his lute.
When the ladies lined up for a set
He was tootlin' with skill for each sparkling quadrille
Though the dancers were fluther'd and bet.
With his smart witty talk he was cock of the walk
And he rolled the dames under and over.
They all knew at a glance when he took up his stance
That he sailed in the Irish Rover.

There was Barney McGee from the banks of the Lee
There was Hogan from County Tyrone
There was Johnny McGurk who was scared stiff of work
And a man from Westmeath named Malone.
There was Slugger O'Toole who was drank as a rule
And fighting Bill Tracy from Dover
And your man, Mick McCann from the banks of the Bann
Was the skipper of the Irish Rover.

We had sailed seven years when the measles broke out
And our ship lost her way in the fog
And the whale of a crew was reduced down to two
Just myself and the captain's old dog.
Then the ship struck a rock, o' Lord what a shock
The bulkhead was turned right over
Turned nine times around, and the poor old dog was drowned
I'm the last of the Irish Rover.


STAR OF THE COUNTY DOWN Go to the top of this page.

Near Banbridge Town in the County Down
One morning last July,
From a boreen green came a sweet colleen
And she smiled as she passed me by.
She looked so sweet from her two bare feet
To the sheen of her nut-brown hair.
Such a coaxing elf, sure shook myself
For to see I was really there.

From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay
And from Galway to Dublin Town,
No maid I've seen like the brown colleen
That I met in the County Down.

As she onward sped sure I scratched my head
And I looked with a feelin' rare,
And I said, says I, to a passer by,
"Who's the maid with a nut-brown hair?"
He smiled at me, and he said, says he,
"That's the gem of the Ireland's crown,
Young Rosie McCann from the banks of the Bann,
She's the star of the County Down."

At the harvest fair she'll be surely there
So I'll dress in my Sunday clothes,
With me shoes shine bright, and me hat cocked right,
For the smile of a nut-brown Rose.
No pipe I'll smoke, no horse I'll yoke,
Till my plough turns rust coloured brown,
Till a smiling bride, by my own fireside
Sits the Star of the County Down.


THE WEARING OF THE GREEN Go to the top of this page.

Oh, Paddy dear and did you hear the news that goin' round?
The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground.
St Patrick's Day no more will keep, his colours can't be seen,
For they're hangin' men and women for the wearing of the green.

I met with Napper Tandy and he took me by the hand
He said: "How's dear old Ireland and how does she stand?"
She's the most distressful country that you have ever seen
For they're hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.

For the wearing of the green,
For the wearing of the green,
They're hanging men and women
For the wearing of the green.

And if the colour we must wear is England's cruel red,
Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed.
You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it down the sod,
But I'll take all root and flourish there, tho' under foot 'tis trod.

My father loved his country and swept from in 'is breast,
But I had one they died for her must never soul be blessed.
Most tears me mother shed for me, how'd bitter they had been,
If had proved the traitor for the wearing of the green.

And if at last our coloured shirt is thorn from Ireland's heart,
Her sons would shame and sorrow for the dear old my wound heart.
I hear the whisper of the land that lays me on the sea,
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of Freedom's day.

Oh, Ireland, must believe you driven high from tyrant's hand,
And see come mother's blessing from the strange and distant land,
Where the cruel cross of England shall never more be seen,
And in that land we live and die, still wearing Ireland's green.


THE FOGGY DEW Go to the top of this page.

It was down the glen one Easter morn, to a city fair rode I,
When Ireland lines of a marching men in squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hun, no battle drum did sound its dread ta-at-too,
But the Angelus bells o'er the Liffey swell rang out in the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin Town they hang out the flag of war,
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the planes of Royal Meath strong men came hurrying through
While Britannia's Huns with their long-range guns sailed in through the foggy dew.

'Twas England bade our Wild Geese go so that small nations might be free,
Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves or the fringe of the Great North Sea.
But should they died by Pearse's side or fought with Valera true,
Their names we'd keep where the Fenians sleep 'neath the mounts of the foggy dew.

The bravest fell and the solemn bell rang mournfully and clear,
For those who died that Easter tide in the springing of the year.
And world did gaze with deep amaze, all those fearless men and true
Who bore the fight so that Freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.


SPANISH LADY Go to the top of this page.

As I went down through Dublin City at the hour of twelve at night,
Who shall I see but the Spanish lady washing her feet by candle light.
First she washed them, then she dried them, over the fire of ashy coal,
In all me life I never did see a maid so sweet since I did roam.

Whack for the turra lura laddie,
Whack for the turra lura lay.

As I went down through Dublin City at the hour of half past eight,
Who shall I see but the Spanish lady brushing her hair in the broad daylight.
First she brushed it, then she tossed it, on her lap was a silver comb,
In all me life I never did see a maid so sweet since I did roam.

Whack for the turra lura laddie,
Whack for the turra lura lay.

As I went down through Dublin City as the sun began to set,
Who shall I see but the Spanish lady catchin' a moth in a golden net.
When she saw me, then she fled me, lifting her petticoat over knee,
In all me life I never did see a maid so sweet as the Spanish lady.

Whack for the turra lura laddie,
Whack for the turra lura lay.

I've wondered north, I've wondered south, through Stonybatter and Patrick's Close,
Up and around by the Glouster Diamond, back by Napper Tandy's house.
Old age has laid her hand on me, cold as a fire of ashy coal,
In all me life I never did see a maid so sweet since I did roam.

Whack for the turra lura laddie,
Whack for the turra lura lay.


SALONIKA Go to the top of this page.

Me husband's in Salonika, I wonder if he's dead,
I wonder if he knows he has a kid with foxy head?

So right away, so right away
So right away to Salonika,
Right away me soldier boy.

Now when the war is over, what will the slackers do?
They'll be all around the soldiers for the loan of a bob or two.

Now when the war is over, what will the soldiers do?
They'll be walking around with leg and a half, and slackers they'll have two.

They taxed our pound of butter, they taxed half penny bun,
But still with all their taxes, they can't bate the bloody hun.

They taxed the Colloseum, they taxed St Mary's Hall,
Why don't they tax the bobbies, with their backs against the wall?

Now when the war is over, what will the slackers do?
For every kid in America, in Cork there will be two.

They take us to Blarney and lays us on the grass,
They puts us in the family way and leaves us our ass.

There's lino on the Parlour, and in the kitchen too,
There's a glass back Chevonier we got from Dicky Glue.

Now never marry soldier, a sailor or a marine,
Now keep your eyes on Sinn Féin boy, with yellow, white and green.


MARIE'S WEDDING Go to the top of this page.

Step we gaily on we go, heel and heel and toe for toe,
Arm and arm and row and row, all for Marie's wedding.

Over hillways up and down, myrtle green and bracken brown,
Past the sheilings through the town all for the sake of Marie.

Red her cheeks as Rowan's are, bright her eyes as any star,
Fairest of them all by far, is our darlin' Marie.

Plenty herring, plenty meal, plenty peat to feel her kreel,
Plenty bonnie bans as well, that's the toast for Marie.


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