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When righteousness declines and wickedness is strong
In the dawning of an age as a new age comes along

That's when I rise again, again, again to light the flame
Of truth within the world of men

   I am light, I am truth, I am the fire of the sun
   I am the hope of all the earth the power of the one

When men have lost their way and know not where to turn
And the future seems to lay where the fires of hatred burn
That's when I rise again again again to light the flame
of love within the hearts of men

   I am light, I am truth, I am the fire of the sun
   I am the destiny of man, the Spirit of the one

When ignorance has bound the hearts of men in fear
And men cry out for help, and no one seems to hear
That's when I rise again, to break the bonds enslaving men
To let a new world be born.

   I am light, I am truth, I am the fire of the sun
   I am the hope of all the earth  the triumph of the one.

The Ballad of Persse O'Reilly


  Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
    How he fell with a roll and a rumble
    And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
    By the butt of the Magazine Wall

    (CHORUS) Of the Magazine Wall/Hump, helmet and all?

  He was one time our King of the Castle
    Now he's kicked about like a rotten old parsnip.
    And from Green Street he'll be sent by order of His Worship
    To the penal jail of Mountjoy

    (CHORUS) To the jail of Mountjoy!/Jail him and joy.

   He was fafafather of all schemes for to bother us
    Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,
    Mare's milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,
    Openair love and religion's reform,

    (CHORUS) And religious reform/Hideous in form.

 Arrah, why, says you, couldn't he manage it?
    I'll go bail, me fine dairyman darling,
    Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys
    All your butter is in your horns

    (CHORUS) His butter is in his horns./Butter his horns!

    (Repeat) Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt on ye,
    Rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns!

  We had chaw chaw chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chicken pox and china
        chambers
    Universally provided by this soffsoaping salesman.
    Small wonder He'll Cheat E'erawan our local lads nicknamed him
    When Chimpden first took the floor

    (CHORUS) With his bucketshop store/Down Bargainweg, Lower.

  So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuous
    But soon we'll bonfire all his trash, tricks and trumpery
    And 'tis short till sheriff Clancy'll be winding up his unlimited
        company
    With the bailiff's bom at the door

    (CHORUS) Bimbam at the door/Then he'll bum no more.

  Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island
    The hooker of the hammerfast viking
    And Gall's curse on the day when Eblana bay
    Saw his black and tan man-o'-war

    (CHORUS) Saw his man-o'-war/On the harbour bar.

 Where from? roars Poolbeg.  Cookingha'pence, he bawls Donnez-moi
        scampitle, wick an wipin'fampiny
    Fingal Mac Oscar Onesine Bargearse Boniface
    Thok's min gammelhole Norveegickers moniker
    Og as ay are at gammelhore Norveegickers cod.

    (CHORUS) A Norwegian camel old cod./He is, begod.

    Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil ye! up with the rann, the rhyming
        rann!

 It was during some fresh water garden pumping
    Or according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeys
    That our heavyweight heathen Humpharey
    Made bold a maid to woo

    (CHORUS) Woohoo, what'll she doo!/The general lost her maidenloo!

 He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher
    For to go and shove himself that way on top of her.
    Begob, he's the crux of the catalogue
    Of our antediluvial zoo

    (CHORUS) Messrs. Billing and Coo./Noah's larks, good as noo.

 He was joulting by Wellinton's monument
    Our rotorious hipppopopotamuns
    When some bugger let down the backtrap of the omnibus
    And he caught his death of fusiliers,

    (CHORUS) With his rent in his rears./Give him six years.

 'Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children
    But look out for his missus legitimate!
    When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker
    Won't there be earwigs on the green?

    (CHORUS) Big earwigs on the green,/The largest ever you seen.

    Suffoclose! Shikespower! Suedodanto! Anonymoses!

 Then we'll have a free trade Gaels' band and mass meeting
    For to sod the brave son of Scandiknavery
    And we'll bury him down in Oxmanstown
    Along with the devil and Danes,

    (CHORUS) With the deaf and dumb Danes,/And all their remains.

 And not all the king's men nor his horses
    Will resurrect his corpus
    For there's no true spell in Connacht or hell

James Joyce

Alister McAlpine's Lament


The lowlands o' Scotland will ne'er be my hame,
Tho' fresh and fair is the gowany lea,
The lowlands o' Scotland will ne'er be my hame,
It will ne'er be like my ain countrie.

In the lowlands o' Scotland nae hills are seen
Rising wi' snaw-white taps sae hie,
And the heather is burnt, and the rose it is fa'en,
That bloomed sae sweet in my ain countrie.

The lowlands o' Scotland will ne'er be my hame,
And there's no a hame on earth for me,
The clans are a' broken and I am alane,
Thinking upon my ain countrie.



Vaughan Williams

Abraham's Daughter

Oh! Kind folks listen to my song.
It is no idle story,
It's all about a volunteer
Who's goin' to fight for glory!
Now don't you think that I am right?
For I am nothing shorter,
And I belong to the fire Zou-Zous,
And don't you think I oughter,
I'm goin' down to Washington
To fight for Abraham's daughter.

Oh! Should you ask me who she am,
Columbia is her name, sir;
She is the child of Abraham,
Or Uncle Sam, the same, sir.
Now if I fight, why ain't I right?
And don't you think I oughter.
The volunteers are a-pouring in
From every loyal quarter,
And I'm goin' down to Washington
To fight for Abraham's daughter.

They say we have no officers,
But, ah! They are mistaken;
And soon you'll see the Rebels run,
With all the fuss they're makin';
For there is one who just sprung up,
He'll show the foe no quarter,
(McClellan is the man I mean)
You know he hadn't oughter,
For he's gone down to Washington
To fight for Abraham's daughter.

We'll have a spree with Johnny Bull,
Perhaps some day or other,
And won't he have his fingers full,
If not a deal of bother;
For Yankee boys are just the lads
Upon the land or water;
And won't we have a "bully" fight,
And don't you think we oughter,
If he is caught at any time
Insulting Abraham's daughter.

But let us lay all jokes aside,
It is a sorry question;
The man who would these states divide
Should hang for his suggestion.
One country and one flag, I say,
Whoe're the war may slaughter;
So I'm goin' as a fire Zou-Zou,
And don't you think I oughter,
I'm going down to Washington
To fight for Abraham's daughter.

Oh! The soldiers here both far and near,
They did get quite excited,
When from their brethren of the south,
To war they were invited.
But it was to be, it is to be,
It can't be nothing shorter,
Oh! And if they call upon this child,
I'ze bound to die a martyr.
For I belong to the fire Zou-Zous,
And don't you think I oughter?
I'm goin' down to Washington
To fight for Abraham's daughter.

I am tired of a city life,
And I will join the Zou-Zous;
I'm going to try and make a hit
Down among the southern foo-foos;
But if perchance I should get hit,
I'll show them I'm a tartar;
We are bound to save our Union yet,
'tis all that we are arter.

There is one thing more that I would state,
Before I close my ditty,
'tis all about the volunteers
That's left our good old city.
They have gone to fight for the Stars and Stripes --
Our Union now or never!
We will give three cheers for the volunteers,
And Washington forever.

Oh! Johnny Bull is gone to grass,
To fatten up his calves, oh!
He's talking of sending shilling-a-day
Soldiers to the South, oh!
But we licked them well, in 1812,
And we can whip them weller: oh, oh, oh!
Whilst we're here, if they interfere,
Won't we give them a warmer!
Oh! I'm a-going down to Washington,
To fight for Abraham's daughter.

How are you and all my friends?
I've just come from the wars, sirs!
For I've been at Bull Run, you know,
And fought for the Stars and Stripes, sirs,
It's true enough we were repulsed,
But the Rebels' loss was great, sirs;
And if you don't believe it's true;
Why read the Richmond papers!

Deirdre's Farewell to Alba

Farewell to fair Alba, high home of the sun.
Farewell to the mountain, the cliff, and the dun.
Dun Sweeny, adieu! For my love cannot stay,
And tarry I must not, when love cries away.

Glen Vashan! Glen Vashan! Where roebucks run free,
Where my love used to feast on the red deer with me,
Where, rocked on thy waters, while stormy winds blew,
My love used to slumber. Glen Vashan, adieu!

Glendaro! Glendaro! Where birchen boughs weep
Honey dew at high noon to the nightingale's sleep.
Where my love used to lead me to hear the cuckoo,
'Mong the high bushes. Glendaro, adieu!

Glenurchy! Glenurchy! Where loudly and long
My love used to wake up the woods with his song,
While the son of the rock, from the depths of the dell,
Laughed sweetly in answer. Glenurchy, farewell!

Glen Etive! Glen Etive! Where dappled does roam,
Where I leave the green sheeling, I first called a home,
Where with me my true love delighted to dwell,
The sun made his mansion. Glen Etive, farewell!

Farewell to Inch Draynagh. Adieu to the roar
Of blue billows bursting in light on the shore.
Dun Figh, farewell! For my love cannot stay,
And tarry I must not when love cries "away."

Death of John Kennedy

Six white horses come a-drivin',
One black horse walked behind,
Takin'  John Kennedy to Arlington,
Down to the buryin' ground.
He's gone; long time gone.

November 22nd,
Down in Dallas town,
Was there that fatal rifle shot,
Struck John Kennedy down.

His darling wife beside him,
She heard that bullet come,
She nevermore will see his face,
While her earthly life shall run.

The doctor come a-runnin',
This is what he said,
"There's nothing more that
I can do, John Kennedy is dead."

Goin' back to Washington,
Goin on a run,
Carryin' that coffin,
For to bring John Kennedy home.

The people on the eastbound train,
Goin' to Washington,
Thinking 'bout that dreadful crime,
That evil hand has done.

Lord, lord, Mr. Oswald,
What did you mean to do?
How could you pick that rifle up
And shoot John Kennedy through?

Put that flag upon him,
Put your mourning on,
Watch his coffin pass you by,
John Kennedy is gone.
He's gone; long time gone.

Bob Coltman

Dunkirk


Mony weary men fain' death and bearin' pain
On that bombed and bloody beach o' Dunkirk.
As I wounded lay I could hear a comrade pray.
What a nicht! What a nicht!

Mony mile between hame o' mine, beloved scene.
And that bombed and bloody beach o' Dunkirk.
Oh ma hert was sair, wid I see hame ivirmair?
Bit I micht, bit I micht


Mony heroes fell, and the rest endured a hell
On that bombed and bloody beach o' Dunkirk.
'Twas abrave retreat, its accomplishment a feat.
Sic a sicht, sic a sicht.



Zetta St. Clair

Drake's Drum

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away,
     (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)

Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time O' Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a-dancing' heel-an'-toe,
An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
He see et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
     (Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?)

Roving' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
A' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
An' drum them up the Channel as we drumm'd them long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
     (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)

Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
An' dreamin arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;
Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'
They shall find him ware and wakin', as they found him long ago!

Sir Henry Newbolt

Sound the Pibroch


Sound the pibroch loud and high
From John O'Groats to the Isle of Skye!
Let all the Clans their slogan cry
And rise tae follow Charlie!

To rise and follow Charlie!

And see a small devoted band
By dark Loch Shiel have taen their stand
And proudly vow wi' heart and hand
To fight for Royal Charlie!

Frae every hill and every glen
Are gatherin' fast the loyal men
They grasp their dirks and shout again
"Hurrah! for Royal Charlie!"

On dark Culloden's field of gore
Hark! They shout "Claymore! Claymore!"
They bravely fight what can they more?
They die for Royal Charlie!

No more we'll see such deeds again
Deserted is each Highland glen
And lonely cairns are o'er the men
Who fought and died for Charlie!

The White Rose blossoms forth again
Deep in sheltered Highland glens
And soon we'll hear the cry we ken
Tae rise! And fight for Charlie!

Mrs. Norman MacLeod

Song of the Splintered Shillelagah
 

'Twas the night before battle and, gathered in groups,
The soldiers lay close at their quarters,
A-thinking, no doubt, of their loved ones at home
Of mothers, wives, sweethearts and daughters.

     With a pipe in his mouth sat a handsome young blade,
     And a song he was singing so gaily,
     His name was Pat Murphy of Meagher's Brigade
     And he sang of the land of Shillelagh.

Said Pat to his comrades, it looks quare to see
Brothers fighting in such a strange manner;
But I'll fight 'til I die, If I never get killed
For America's bright starry banner.

     Far away in the west rode a dashing young blade
     And the song he was singing so gaily,
     'Twas honest Pat Murphy of the Irish Brigade
     And the song of the splintered shillelagh.

Well, morning soon broke and poor Paddy awoke
He found rebels to give satisfaction
And the drummer was beating the Devil's sad tune
They were calling the troops into action.

     Far away in the west rode a dashing young blade
     And the song he was singing so gaily,
     'Twas honest Pat Murphy of the Irish Brigade
     And the song of the splintered shillelagh.

Then the Irish Brigade into battle was seen,
Their blood for the cause shedding freely
With their bayonet charges they rushed on the foe
With a shout for the land of shillelagh.

     Far away in the west rode a dashing young blade
     And the song he was singing so gaily,
     'Twas honest Pat Murphy of the Irish Brigade
     And the song of the splintered shillelagh.

The day after battle, the dead lay in heaps
And Paddy lay bleeding and gory,
With a hole in his breast where some enemy's ball
Had ended his passion for glory,

     No more in the camps will his letters be read
     Nor his voice be heard singing so gaily
     For he died far away from the friends that he loved
     And far from the land of shillelagh.


Annon.