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Of the two Irelands that I know,
One of them is to be deprived,
While the other cannot grow,
While she is still
wived,
To that emerald ball and chain,
Marshalled by the corporate people.
She knows all our pain,
And she knows
she must rise like a steeple,
Against the seemingly unstoppable tide,
Choose to be on the losing side,
Because she
knows how much our baby has cried.
She cannot look away while,
The guns are being shot,
The merchants are being taken
for all they got,
The average man is losing his plot
On our lost little isle.
You may be poor, Roisin Dubh,
But you’re more than content.
You’ve counted your blessings from
above
And you never doubted they were sent
For you and your poor country folk
We’ve got no money
But in
happiness we will soak
Because after the rain, it will be sunny.
The bees will carry on,
Since the geese have gone,
On
their journey most dangerous and long,
As they advance mile by mile
Into foreign lands
Away from homely demands,
Marching
with rebel bands
On our lost little isle.
Of the two Irelands that I know,
One is going to be saved
And other is going to be let go
To the cardboard
shelter with the raved.
One group will hold their head up high
And other doesn’t have to
Because they’re
not breathing the lie
From the starry sky to the morning dew.
The country is going to be alright.
We’re awfully
sorry for the fright
But our belts will have to become tight,
Much tighter than the current style,
Like some newly
woven dress,
That makes the men digress,
More than they’re will to confess,
On our lost little isle.
Cathlenn Ni Houlihan, how you are grand!
Your dowry is becoming less,
Like a mountain turning back into sand,
On
the verge of nothingness.
The harlot’s angel of disguise,
Your bleached blonde hair,
Deceiving both the fools
and the wise
Who know you as a millionaire,
Boasting to your friends,
About your husband’s ends,
And the
false regards he sends.
Ah, it’s all too vile,
To stand around and hope,
That our economy can cope,
With
the present slope,
On our lost little isle.
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