Many they say don't remember the days when the
paupers of Ireland came over the waves,
Dispossessed and evicted
from their native abode
on ships fit for cattle they come in their droves,
Oh many Papists were many and wee proud
of their pope
no fear of the jailer, the gallows, or rope,
They had no bitter words for no other race,
their possessions and prayed for Gods grace.
The Irish in Glasgow in wealth they were poor, but the richest in sprit for they treasured their lane,
to cries and to shouts for to ship them away, they fought and they struggled in Scotland to stay.
Said the Times o'er in
London with a thunderous roar, there are no savage redskins an Manhattan's shore,
All Irish natives now would soon he as
rare, and the west of Old Erin would soon be laid bare.
With famine and hunger in the west of our land the mightiest Empire would not lend a hand,
Mud cabins and savages
were torn from the hills, potatoes lay rotten in ditches and drills,
They died on tlfe killside the feeble and old, the
workhouse and jailhouse on the valleys and roads,
Na coffins or shrouds it would make your heart cry, the fathers and mothers
and children did die.
0 pity the fate of the Irish who roam to Scotland, they wondered far from their home
Na nasty words for our race
it was spaced those ape face the Irish papers declared
God gave them the power for the cross o'er the main and Scotland
will shield them from famine and pain
From Cowgote to Greenock they fought for their share, ignored taunts of bigots who