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Have you ever walked the lonesome hills and heard the curlews cry |
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Or seen the raven black as night upon a windswept sky |
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To walk the purple heather and hear the westwind cry |
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To know that's where the Rapparee must die |
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As since Cromwell pushed us westward to live our lowly lives |
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There's some of us have deemed to fight from Tipperary mountains high |
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Noble men with wills of iron who are not afraid to die |
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And who'll fight with Gaelic honor held on high |
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A curse upon you Oliver Cromwell, you who raped our Motherland |
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I hope you're rotting down in hell for the horrors that you sent |
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To our misfortunate forefathers whom you robbed of their birthright |
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"To hell or Connaught" may you burn in hell tonight |
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Of one such man I'd like to speak, a Rapparee by name and deed |
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His family dispossessed and slaughtered they put a price upon his head |
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His name is known in song and story, his deeds are legends still |
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And murdered for blood money was young Ned of the hill |
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You have robbed our homes and fortunes even drove us from our land |
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You tried to break our spirit but you'll never understand |
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The love of dear old Ireland that will forge and iron will |
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As long as there are gallant men, like young Ned of the hill |
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A curse upon you Oliver Cromwell, you who raped our Motherland |
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I hope you're rotting down in hell for the horrors that you sent |
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To our misfortunate forefathers whom you robbed of their birthright |
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"To hell or Connaught" may you burn in hell tonight |
