IRELAND FOR THE IRISH!

Home Rule

and the

Release of the Fenians

Air – The Grand Conversation

Within a dreary convict cell,
Where innocent prisoners dwell,
Whose stone walls fearful tales could tell,
A worn out Fenian lay:
Upon his cold and cheerless bed,
He rests his feverish lips and aching head,
Until by slumber he was led,
To dream the night away:
His poor wan features wore a smile,
When he thoughts of Erin’s Isle,
In happy dreams he woo’d a while,
And felt sweet liberty:
As thro’ the prison bars the moonlight gleams,
He whispered in his troubled dreams,
“My blessings on old Ireland,
Where the Shamrock grows green.”

The little cabin upon the heath,
Where first sweet heaven gave him breath,
And where he hoped to meet his death,
Upon his native soil:
He sees his children around the door,
And his poor wife’s face once more,
Their careworn features traces bore,
Of trouble and turmoil:
But where are those, the Fenian cried,
That once I knew in strength and pride?
They are forced to cross the raging tide,
So downtrodden have they been:
But though they’re in America,
Enjoying the fruits of liberty,
Their hearts are with old Ireland,
Where the Shamrock grows so green.

Oh why should cruel laws defile,
That fertile spot, dear Erin’s Isle,
And chase away the witty smile,
From the face of her sons?
Or why keep down like fettered slaves,
Or send them to untimely graves,
‘Tis only ‘Justice’ Ireland craves,
And that will quickly come.
In every clime beneath the sun,
Where gallant work was to be done,
Their blood had England’s battle won,
And that the world has seen:
Then if they have generosity,
They’ll set the Fenian prisoners free,
To return, to dear old Ireland,
Where the grass grows so green.

Our history shows that in days of yore,
Our ancient kings kept from our shore,
Our Saxon foes, and many more,
Who came from across the wave:
By treachery and foreign gold,
Our country was bought and sold,
And now we’ve not an inch of mould,
Unless it’s for a grave:
How Irishmen fought and fell,
For their native land they loved so well,
Manchester a tale could tell,
As well as Stephen’s Green:
And as those gallant patriots died,
These were the words they each one cried,
“May god be with old Ireland,
Where the grass grows so green.”

None could be found who dare enthral,
The ancient sons of brave Fingal
Nor the men who sat in Tara’s hall,
Most war-like in their age:
And when we look at recent date,
We mean in Seventeen Ninety Eight,
When Robert Emmett met his fate,
The Whiteboys were the rage:
But English muskets shot them down,
Their baynots pierced them on the ground,
The murdered-dead in heaps were found,
And streams of blood were seen:
But when our liberty we have got,
The spirit of Ireland – Shan Van Vocht
Will rise and bless old Ireland,
Where the Shamrock grows so green.

But as the Fenian prisoner lay,
Dreaming still till break of day,
He thought he heard an Angel say,
Old Ireland shall be free:
She soon shall rise in freedom grand,
And plenty reign on every hand,
And each one have his plot of land,
To till – with liberty:
And distant friends across the main,
To the Old homes come back again,
The bright green flag o’er hill and plain,
Proudly waving shall be seen;
Prosperity shall soon increase,
And Fenian prisoners have release,
With Home Rule for old Ireland,
Where the Shamrock grows so green.