Ó ‘BHEAN A’ TÍ

Ó éirigí suas a thogha na bhfear,
Is cuirigí píce ‘r bharr gach cleith.
Is leagaigí síos iad lucht an droch-chroí
Agus cuirigí dlí na Frainc’ ar bun.
Agus ó bhean a’ tí, cén bhuairt sin ort?

Is ó bhean a’ tí fá dhó nó trí
Beidh talamh gan chíos ón bhliain seo amach againn,
Is ó bhean a’ tí, nach suairc é sin?

Tá jug ar an mbord is tá beoir ag teacht,
Tá arm go leor ag an Duke of York.
Tá ‘n Francach ‘s an Spáinneach ar bhruach na trá,
Agus b’fhearr liom go mór é ná comhrá ban,
Agus ó bhean a’ tí, cén bhuairt sin ort?

Is ó bhean a’ tí fá dhó nó trí
Beidh talamh gan chíos ón bhliain seo amach againn,
Is ó bhean a’ tí, nach suairc é sin?

Ó shuigh mise síos ‘s mo mhian le m’ais,
Ag ól mo cháirt dí mar dhéanfadh fear;
Sé dúirt bean a’ tí den chomhrá mhín,
Gan airgead síos bí ‘gabháil amach,
Agus ó bhean a’ tí, cén bhuairt sin ort?

Seo é leagan Béarla ar an gcéad véarsa:

Come! rise in your might, O best of men,
And muster your pikes in yonder glen;
Your enemies smite, with sword and lance,
And no laws you will own, but those of France.
And O! bhean a’ tí, what ails thee now?

O! bhean a’ tí, in two years or three
You’ll have land without rent to graze your cow on,
And O! bhean a’ tí, what ails thee now?

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PLANT, PLANT THE TREE

During the years of the Revolution, the French planted Trees of Liberty in their towns and villages. The custom spread throughout Europe and reached Ireland as early as 1792.
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Chorus
Plant, plant the tree, fair Freedom’s tree
Midst danger, wounds and slaughter
Erin’s green fields its soil shall be
Her tyrant’s blood its water.

They come, they come, see myriads come
Of Frenchmen to relieve us;
Seize, seize the pike, beat, beat the drum,
They come, my friends, to save us;
Whilst trembling despots fly this land,
To shun impending danger,
We’ll stretch forth our fraternal hand,
To hail each welcome stranger.

Those nicknames, Marquis, Lord and Earl,
That set the crowd a-gazing,
We prize as hogs esteem a pearl,
Their patents set a-blazing,
No more they’ll vote away our wealth
To please a king or queen, sirs,
But gladly pack away by stealth,
Or taste the Guillotine, sirs.

The Parliament, who say foresooth
They represent the nation
Shall scamper East, West, North and South,
Or feel our indignation.
The Speaker’s mace to current coin
We presently will alter,
For ribbons lately thought so fine,
We’ll fit each with a halter.

And when th’all glorious work is done,
Rejoice with one another,
To ploughshares beat the sword and gun,
Now every man’s your brother;
Detested wars shall ever cease
In kind fraternisation,
All will be harmony and peace,
And the whole world one nation.

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THE BOYS OF WEXFORD

In comes the captain’s daughter,the captain of the Yeos,
Saying "Brave United Irishman, we’ll ne’er again be foes.
A thousand pounds I’ll give you and fly from home with thee,
And dress myself in man’s attire and fight for liberty."

We are the boys of Wexford, who fought with heart and hand
To burst in twain the galling chain and free our native land.

"I want no gold, my maiden fair, to fly from home with thee;
Your shining eyes will be my prize – more dear than gold to me.
I want no gold to nerve my arm to do a true man’s part –
To free my land I’d gladly give the red drops from my heart."

We are the boys of Wexford, who fought with heart and hand
To burst in twain the galling chain and free our native land.

And when we left our cabins, boys, we left with right good will
To see our friends and neighbours that were at Vinegar Hill!
A young man from our Irish ranks a cannon he let go;
He slapt it into Lord Mountjoy – a tyrant he laid low!

We are the boys of Wexford, who fought with heart and hand
To burst in twain the galling chain and free our native land.

We bravely fought and conquered at Ross and Wexford town;
Three Bullet Gate for years to come will speak for our renown;
Through Walpole’s horse and Walpole’s foot on Tubberneering’s day,
Depending on the long, bright pike, and well it worked its way.

We are the boys of Wexford, who fought with heart and hand
To burst in twain the galling chain and free our native land.

And Oulart’s name shall be their shame, whose steel we ne’er did fear,
For every man could do his part like Forth and Shelmalier!
And if, for want of leaders, we lost at Vinegar Hill,
We’re ready for another fight, and love our country still!

We are the boys of Wexford, who fought with heart and hand
To burst in twain the galling chain and free our native land.

Robert Dwyer Joyce



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DO CHUALA SCÉAL

Do chuala scéal do réab mo chroí ionam
Is d’ardaigh guais is gruaim ar m’intinn,
Scéal do léan fir Éireann timpeall
Is ler cuireadh Fódhla i mbrón gan scaoileadh.

A Chlanna Gael, sin réidh sibh choíche;
D’imigh bhur dtreoir, níl speois ná brí ionaibh
Sin é an Gearaltach ceangailte i ngeimhleach
Is Artúr uasal uaibh thar taoide. (1)

Níl rí-fhlaith stáit le fáil san tír seo
Lenar mhaith bhur nglas a scaoileadh,
Ná fuil mí-ádh agus díobháil nimhe air
Is an chinniúint dá chiorrú is dá chloíchaint.

Ní hionadh liomsa búir go haoibhinn
Gan baol, gan bascadh, gan mairg i gCríoch Loirc,
Is gur sibh féin atá, cé náir le hinsint,
Ag braith a chéile do thréad na gclaoin-bheart.

Iarraim, aitim is screadaim ar Íosa,
Is go raibh an geall ar namhaid ár dtíre;
Go raibh baol is léan is líonrith,
Ar gach spreasán creacháin coimthíoch.

Rí na bhfliatheas do dhealbhaigh tíortha;
Ré agus réalta, spéartha is taoide,
Go ndéana cúl go humhal dár muintir,
Is go raibh an cluiche seo acu gan righneas.

Ó chím an cás mar atá ag ár muintir,
Is go bhfuail na búir go dlúth ‘na dtimpeall,
Preabfad chun siúil anonn thar taoide
Is tiocfad anall le Francaigh líofa.

Go bhfeiceam Éire saor gan daoirse,
Is an bhratainn uaithne in uachtar scaoilte,
Gach tíoránach claoin-cheardach, coimhthíoch,
In ainm an diabhail, is gan Dia dá gcoimhdeacht.

Mícheál Óg Ó Longáin

(1) An Tiarna Éamonn Mac Gearailt agus Artúr Ó Conchúir.



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THE WEARING OF THE GREEN
(Old Version, 1798)

I met with Napper Tandy.
And he took me by the hand.
Saying: How is poor old Ireland?
And what way does she stand?
She’s the most distressful country,
That ever yet was seen.
They are hanging men and women,
For the wearing of the green.

For the wearing of the green,
For the wearing of the green.
My native land, I cannot stand,
For the wearing of the green.

My father loved you tenderly,
He lies within your breast.
While I, that would have died for you,
Must never so be blessed.
For laws, their cruel laws, have said,
That seas should roll between
Old Ireland and her faithful sons,
Who love to wear the green.

For the wearing of the green,
For the wearing of the green.
My native land, I cannot stand,
For the wearing of the green.

I care not for the Thistle,
And I care not for the Rose;
When bleak winds round us whistle,
Neither down nor crimson shows.
But like hope to him that’s friendless,
When no joy around is seen.
O’er our grave with love that’s endless,
Blooms our own immortal green.

For the wearing of the green,
For the wearing of the green.
My native land, I cannot stand,
For the wearing of the green.

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THE GREEN LINNET

"Maria Louisa’s Lamentation for the Loss of her Lover". The Green Linnet was Napoleon Bonaparte. The air is a variant of "Uilleagán Dubh Ó".

Curiosty led a young native of Erin
To view the gay banks of the Rhine,
Where an empress he saw, and the robe she was wearing
All over with diamonds did shine.
No goddess in splendour was ever yet seen
To equal this fair maid so mild and serene,
In soft murmurs she cried, "O my Linnet so green,
Sweet Boney, will I ne’er see you more?

The cold lofty Alps you freely passed over,
Which nature had placed in your way:
At Marengo, Bellona around you did hover;
And Paris rejoiced the next day.
It grieved me the hardships that you did undergo,
The mountains you traversed all covered with snow,
And the balance of power your courage laid low:
Sweet Boney, will I ne’er see you more?

The crowned heads of Europe when you were in splendour,
Swore that they would have you subdue;
But the goddess of freedom soon made them surrender,
And lower their standard to you.
Old Frederick’s colours to France he did bring;
Yet offspring found shelter under your wing;
That year at Vienna you sweetly did sing;
Sweet Boney, will I ne’er see you more?

What numbers of men there were eager to slay you!
Their malice you viewed with a smile;
Their gold through all Europe was found to betray you;
They joined with the Mamelukes at the Nile
Like ravenous vultures their vile passions did burn;
The orphans they slew and caused widows to mourn;
But my Linnet is gone, and he ne’er will return:
Sweet Boney, will I ne’er see you more?

I ranged through the deserts of wild Abyssinia,
And could yet find no cure for my pain;
I will go and inquire at the isle of St Helena,
But soft murmurs whisper "Tis vain"!
Come, tell me, ye critics come tell me in time,
What nations I’ll rove my green Linnet to find;
Was he slain at Waterloo, in Spain or on the Rhine?
No, he’s dead on St Helena’s bleak shore.

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