Stories & Lyrics behind some of Ireland’s finest songs
Ireland is a land famous for songs and stories. It is one of the most beautiful aspects of our culture and a part I am extremely proud of. Irish songs are easy enough to sing and the narrative and stories told in the lyrics are inspiring and evocative, and good therapy!
If you scroll down you’ll find the lyrics (and some personal thoughts) of some of my favourite Irish songs that I included in my 2021 album “Songs for the Road. Rebellious, Romantic, Irish.”
I wish I was back home in Derry
Stephens note: A powerful rebel song with powerful lyrics, written by Bobby Sands who later died on hunger strike. The imagery is stark, the melody haunting, the message defiant. The tune is from the ‘Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’ by Gordon Lighfoot. I sang this once at a tour-guide party in Rick Steves house, it had quite the impact. The Foyle is in river in historic Derry, where I happily lived for 20 years. As I sat on the balcony of my nice waterfront apartment watching the Foyle flow by, I often thought of previous generations of Derry men fighting and resisting as they were bundled onto ships bound for hard labour in the British penal colonies of Australia. I wanted my guests to spare a thought for them too. A great song for the road.Ps “Weans” is Derry slang for little children, comes from saying “wee ones” very fast. Only in Derry (where everything is affectionately described as ‘wee’) can you have ‘wee weans’, which means wee wee ones 🙂
….
In 1803 we sailed out to sea
Out from the sweet town of Derry
For Australia bound if we didn’t all drown
The marks of our fetters we carried
In the rusty iron chains we cried for our wean’s
Our good women we left in sorrow
As the main sails unfurled, our curses we hurled
At the English and thoughts of tomorrow
At the mouth of the Foyle, bid farwell to the soil
As down below decks we were lying
O’Doherty screamed, woken out of a dream
By a vision of bold Robert dying
The sun burned cruel as we dished out the gruel
Dan O’Connor was down with the fever
Sixty rebels today bound for Botany Bay
How many will reach their receiver?
Oh, oh, I wish I was back home in Derry
Oh, oh, I wish I was back home in Derry
I cursed them to hell, as our bow fought the swell
Our ship danced like a moth in the firelight
Wild horses rode high as the devil passed by
Taking souls to Hades by twilight
Five weeks out to sea, we were now forty-three
We buried our comrades each morning
In our own slime, we were lost in the time
Endless night without dawning
Oh, oh, I wish I was back home in Derry
Oh, oh, I wish I was back home in Derry
Van Diemen’s land is a hell for a man
To end out his whole life in slavery
Where the climate is raw and the gun makes the law
Neither wind nor rain care for bravery
Twenty years have gone by, I’ve ended my bond
My comrades’ ghosts walk behind me
A rebel I came, I’m still the same
On the cold winter’s night you will find me
Oh, oh, I wish I was back home in Derry
Oh, oh, I wish I was back home in Derry
Oh, oh, I wish I was back home in Derry
Oh, oh, I wish I was back home in Derry
……
My Lovely Rose of Clare
Stephens notes: A classic oldie, I love singing this with guests as we travel through County Clare, one of my favourite places in all of Ireland. Driving along the Wild Atlantic Way, the scenery is so inspiring, even if the sun is not “shining like a jewel on the lovely hill of Clare’! Singing this song raises spirits and spreads contentment through the bus, very important before we arrive at the crowd-fest that the Cliffs of Moher have become.
….
Oh My Lovely Rose of Clare
You’re the sweetest girl I know
The queen of all the roses
And the pretty flowers that grow
You are the sunshine of my life
So beautiful and fair
And I will always love you
My lovely rose of Clare
Oh the sun it shines out like a jewel
On the lovely hills of Clare
As I walked along with my sweet love
One evening at the fair
Her eyes they shone like silver streams
Her long and golden hair
And I have won the heart of one
My Lovely Rose of Clare
As we walked down by the riverbank
Watched the Shannon flowing by
And listening to the nightingale
Sing songs for you and I
And to bid farewell
To all so true and fair
For I have won the heart of one
My Lovely Rose of Clare
…..
The Green Fields of France (Willie McBride)
Stephens note: One of the most powerful anti-war songs of all by the masterful Eric Bogle who also wrote the evocative – ‘the Band played Waltzing Matilda’ – about Australians amid the carnage of Gallipolli, while invading Turkey.
Over the years I met a few people who thought the ‘great fall-in of 1916’ line was a reference to the Easter Rising, but no, this song remembers the brave young Irishmen in British uniforms who’s lives were lost in the bloodbaths of World War 1.
A member of my mother’s clan, Donegal man James McGinley, died at Gallipolli, a few weeks after arriving. His body never found. I think of him and how his life was wasted as I sing this song with my guests.
….
Oh how do you do, young Willie McBride
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside?
And rest for a while in the warm summer sun
I’ve been walking all day, and I’m nearly done
And I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen
When you joined the great fallen in 1916
Well, I hope you died quick, and I hope you died clean
Oh Willie McBride, was is it slow and obscene?
Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play the last post and chorus?
Did the pipes play the flowers of the forest?
And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined?
And though you died back in 1916
To that loyal heart you’re forever nineteen
Or are you a stranger without even a name?
Forever enshrined behind some old glass pane
In an old photograph torn, tattered, and stained
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame
Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play the last post and chorus?
Did the pipes play the flowers of the forest?
The sun now it shines on the green fields of France
The warm summer breeze makes the red poppies dance
And look how the sun shines from under the clouds,
No gas, no barbed wire, no guns firing now
But here in this graveyard that’s still no man’s land
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man
And a whole generation were butchered and damned
Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play the last post and chorus?
Did the pipes play the flowers of the forest?
Ah young Willie McBride, I can’t help wondering why,
Do those that lie here know why did they die?
Did they really believe when they answered the call
Did they really believe that this war would end wars?
For the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain
The killing and dying it was all done in vain
Oh Willie McBride, it all happened again
And again, and again, and again, and again
Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down?
Did the band play the last post and chorus?
Did the pipes play the flowers of the forest?
…..
Molly Malone (In Dublins Fair City)
Stephens note: The old classic. Not sure if Molly Malone even existed but she’s the most famous Dublin woman ever.
A nice easy song to warm up the vocal cords of a group during a drive through the Irish countryside. In 1992, as a wide-eyed 16 year old I attended my first All-Ireland Gaelic football Final (Donegal’s first also!) When I heard this song erupt from the Dublin fans in a sea of blue on Hill 16, I got goose bumps that I can remember today, 30 years later.
……..
In Dublin’s fair city
Where the girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone
As she wheeled her wheel-barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying, “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!”
Alive, alive, oh
Alive, alive, oh
Crying “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh”
She was a fishmonger
And sure ’twas no wonder
For so were her father and mother before
And they both wheeled their barrows
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying, “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!”
Alive, alive, oh
Alive, alive, oh
Crying “cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh”
She died of a fever
And no one could save her
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone
But her ghost wheels her barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying, “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!”
Alive, alive, oh
Alive, alive, oh
Crying “cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh”
Alive, alive, oh
Alive, alive, oh
Crying “cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh”
…..
The Bold Fenian Men (Down by the Glenside)
Stephens note: I’ve for long been fascinated by the history of the Fenian Uprising 1867, also known as the IRB (Irish Republican Brotherhood), many leaders were shipped to Australia in chains. Particularly interesting was their huge influence among the Irish Brigade in the Union Army during the American civil war, and their ensuing invasion of Canada! (check it out) They popped up a lot in my travels, in places like Old Melbourne Gaol and in Quebec. When I had a house there on the St. Lawrence – they appeared a lot on plaques and in local legend…
Once after a passionate rendition to a group of Aussie backpackers, one asked me “Steve, who’s the bald-fingered men?”. I trust these lyrics will clarify I wasn’t singing about them.
…..
‘Twas down by the glenside, I met an old woman
A-plucking young nettles, she ne’er saw me coming
I listened a while to the song she was humming
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men
‘Tis fifty long years since I saw the moon beaming
On strong manly forms, on eyes with hope gleaming
I see them again, sure, in all my sad dreaming
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men.
Some died by the glenside, some died near a stranger
And wise men have told us their cause was a failure
But they stood by old Ireland and never feared danger
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men
I passed on my way, God be praised that I met her
Be life long or short, sure I’ll never forget her
We may have brave men, but we’ll never have better
Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Fenian men
….
The Parting Glass
Stephens note: Such a great song to signify the end a memorable tour of Ireland or even a wonderful meal with a group of guests.
Quite famous these days because of the fine rendition by superstar Ed Sheeran, an English man with strong Irish family connections and affections.
When US General Martin Dempsey retired as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (so therefore the most powerful soldier in the world!) he sang this song in front of all the gathered dignitaries. His clan are from Donegal, so are mine, that filled me with pride.
…
Oh of all the money that e’re I spent
I spent it in good company
And of all the harm that e’re Ive done
Alas it was to none but me
For all I’ve done for want of wit
To mem’ry now I can’t recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all
Oh if I had money enough to spend
And leisure time to sit awhile
There is a fair maid in this town
And she surely has my heart beguiled
Her rosey cheeks, her ruby lips
I own she has my heart enthralled
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all
Oh of all the comrades that e’re I’ve had
They are sorry for my going away
And of all the sweethearts that e’re I’ve had
They would wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I’ll gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be with you all
….
Red is the Rose
Stephens note: A sunny day, driving around Ireland; keeping the bus between the ditches, passing green fields, chilled-out sheep, Norman castles, stone walls, colourful towns, friendly faces, happy international visitors all singing along. Sheer bliss
….
Come over the hills, my bonny Irish lass
Come over the hills to your darling
You choose the road, love, and I’ll make the vow
And I’ll be your true love forever
Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows
Fair is the lily of the valley
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne
But my love is fairer than any
‘Twas down by Killarney’s green woods that we strayed
When the moon and the stars they were shining
The moon shone its rays on her locks of golden hair
And she swore she’d be my love forever
Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows
Fair is the lily of the valley
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne
But my love is fairer than any
It’s not for the parting that my sister pains
It’s not for the grief of my mother
Tis all for the loss of my bonny Irish lass
That my heart is breaking forever
Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows
Fair is the lily of the valley
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne
But my love is fairer than any
Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows
Fair is the lily of the valley
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne
But my love is fairer than any
….
Four Green Fields
Stephens note: Centuries ago, Irish patriots were forbidden from mentioning Ireland or rebellion in song and so would use symbols like ‘four green fields’ to represent Ireland’s four provinces so they could sing without punishment or being accused of inciting disobedience or insurrection against the Crown.
That is not the case in this song however as Tommy Makem wrote it in 1967, but the spirit remains true and It evokes imagery that is both poignant and beautiful.
My dream is to see Ireland peacefully reunited and all the people of the Island to live together in harmony, hopefully one day.
One night I was in the elegant surrounds of Dromoland Castle. The historic cocktail bar is intimate and there’s nowhere to hide, I was asked up to sing a song, so I gave them a passionate rendition of ‘Four Green Fields’, not sure how it went down with management, but the guests certainly loved it, I didn’t have to buy a drink for the rest of the evening, great craic.
…
What did I have, said the fine old woman
What did I have, this proud old woman did say
I had four green fields, each one was a jewel
But strangers came and tried to take them from me
I had fine strong sons, they fought to save my jewels
They fought and died, and that was my grief said she.
Long time ago, said the fine old woman
Long time ago, this proud old woman did say
There was war and death, plundering and pillage
My children starved by mountain, valley and sea
And their wailing cries, they shook the very heavens
My four green fields ran red with their blood said she.
What have I now, said the fine old woman
What have I now, this proud old woman did say
I have four green fields, one of them’s in bondage
In stranger’s hands, who tried to take it from me
But my sons have sons, as brave as were their fathers
My fourth green field will bloom once again said she.
…
Ride On
Stephens note: One of the great Irish classics made famous by Christy Moore.
I love teaching this song on the bus so people can sing along then later in the pubs; learning the words and joining in a little with locals can really enhance a visitor’s Irish experience.
….
True you ride the finest horse I have ever seen
Standing sixteen one or two, with eyes wild and green
And you ride the horse so well, hands light to the touch
I could never go with you no matter how I wanted to
Ride on, see you,
I could never go with you
No matter how I wanted to
When you ride into the night without a trace behind
Run your claw along my gut, one last time
I turn to face an empty space, where once you used to lie
And look for a spark that lights the dark
Through a teardrop in my eye
Ride on, see you,
I could never go with you
No matter how I wanted to
Ride on, see you,
I could never go with you
No matter how I wanted to
No matter how I wanted to
….
The Auld Triangle
Stephens notes: Written by Dublin legend Brendan Behan about his time in the ironically named Mountjoy Prison.
Passing the Behan sculpture by the canal and the prison with it’s ugly high Victorian walls on numerous occasions, alone or with groups, it always made me pause to reflect on how horrible it would be to be stuck in there instead of enjoying the freedom to galavant all over Ireland.
To be woken every day by someone banging a triangle and barking orders would be nightmarish.
This song reminds us to celebrate everyday freedom and how privileged we are to be able to travel.
…
A hungry feeling, came o’er me stealing
And the mice they were squealing in my prison cell
And that auld triangle, went jingle jangle
All along the banks of the Royal Canal
To begin the morning, a screw was bawling
Get up ya bowsies, and clean up your cell
And that auld triangle, went jingle jangle
All along the banks of the Royal Canal
Oh the lags were sleeping, Humpy Gussy was creeping.
As I lay there weeping for my girl Sal
And that auld triangle, went jingle jangle
All along the banks of the Royal Canal
On a fine spring evening, the lag lay dreaming
And the seagulls were wheeling high above the wall
And that auld triangle, went jingle jangle
All along the banks of the Royal Canal
Oh the wind was sighing, and the day was dying
As the lag lay crying in his prision cell
And that auld triangle, went jingle jangle
All along the banks of the Royal Canal
Up in the female prison there are seventy five women
And among those women, I wish I did dwell
And that auld triangle, went jingle jangle
All along the banks of the Royal Canal
….
The Mountains of Mourne
Stephens notes: Written a century ago by ace song-writer Percy French, described by some as an “old-fashioned” song until Don McClean made it ‘sexy’!
I learned this at school and always love singing it on a tour bus. Makes me think of the London-Irish experience and especially my brother, Chris, who emigrated to London to find a full-time teaching job; a decade later he is now a Head Teacher with lots of authority and responsibilty (and a family!) and who will most likely never return. My daughter Erin chose London for University and understandably loves it, maybe she too will never return.
What most Irish people don’t know is this song has a lost verse that nobody ever sings and has been conveniently binned over the century, seems old Percy was a bit of a Royalist. Too funny. I shared this verse with some friends from the Protestant/Unionist community and they found it hysterical.
….
The Mountains o’ Mourne
By Percy French (1896)
Oh, Mary, this London’s a wonderful sight,
With people all working by day and by night.
Sure, they don’t sow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat,
But there’s gangs of them digging for gold in the street.
At least when I asked them that’s what I was told,
So I just took a hand at this digging for gold,
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the Mountains o’ Mourne sweep down to the sea.
I believe that when writing a wish you expressed
As to how the fine ladies in London are dressed,
Well if you’ll believe me, when asked to a ball,
They don’t wear no top to their dresses at all.
Oh I’ve seen them meself and you could not in truth,
Say if they were bound for a ball or a bath.
Don’t be starting such fashions, now, Mary, mo chroí,
Where the Mountains o’ Mourne sweep down to the sea.
You remember young Peter O’Loughlin, of course,
Well, now he is here at the head of the Force.
I met him today, I was crossing the Strand,
And he stopped the whole street with a wave of his hand.
And there we stood talkin’ of days that are gone,
While the whole population of London looked on.
But for all these great powers he’s wishful like me,
To be back where the dark Mournes sweep down to the sea.
There’s beautiful girls here, oh, never you mind,
With beautiful shapes nature never designed,
And lovely complexions all roses and cream,
But let me remark with regard to the same
That if of those roses you ventured to sip,
The colours might all come away on your lip,
So I’ll wait for the wild rose that’s waiting for me
In the place where the dark Mournes sweep down to the sea.
….
The ‘lost verse’
I’ve seen England’s king from the top of a bus
And I’ve never known him, but he means to know us.
And tho’ by the Saxon we once were oppressed,
Still I cheered, God forgive me, I cheered with the rest.
And now that he’s visited Erin’s green shore
We’ll be much better friends than we’ve been heretofore
When we’ve got all we want, we’re as quiet as can be
Where the Mountains o’ Mourne sweep down to the sea.
…..
The City of Chicago
Stephens note: A fine modern ‘folk’ song, written by Barry Moore (also known as Luka Bloom).
The Irish emigrant experience often turned a rural peasant people into city-dwellers.
Imagine being forced through hunger to abandon your stone cottage in rural Connemara and 8 weeks later finding yourself in a tenement in Hells Kitchen in New York.
Or being evicted from a small farm in the wilds of Donegal and moving to the bustling concrete metropolis of Chicago.
I’d sing this song on the bus as we meandered through epic landscapes of rural Ireland, every few miles passing the ruins of yet another abandoned cottage.
…
In the City of Chicago
As the evening shadows fall
There are people dreaming
Of the hills of Donegal
1847 was the year it all began
Deadly pains of hunger drove a million from the land
They journeyed not for glory
Their motive wasn’t greed
A voyage of survival across the stormy sea
To the City of Chicago
As the evening shadows fall
There are people dreaming
Of the hills of Donegal
Some of them knew fortune
Some of them knew fame
More of them knew hardship
And died upon the plain
They spread throughout the nation
They rode the railroad cars
Brought their songs ant music to ease their lonely hearts
To the City of Chicago
As the evening shadows fall
There are people dreaming
Of the hills of Donegal
…
Johnny Jump Up
Stephens note: One the best drinking songs from the Peoples Republic of Cork! My friends there told me it was a cider matured in whiskey casks which made it extra potent. In all my years on the roads around Ireland, I’ve yet to to lay hands on a bottle. I’ll keep the faith and keep singing until I do.
….
’ll tell you a story that happened to me
One day as I went down to Youghal by the sea
The sun it was high and the day it was warm
Says I an auld pint wouldn’t do me no harm
I went in and I called for a bottle of stout
Says the barman I’m sorry the beer is sold out
Try whiskey or Paddy ten years in the wood
Says I I’ll try cider I’ve heard that it’s good
O never O never O never again
If I live to a hundred or a hundred and ten
I fell to the floor and I couldn’t get up
After drinking a pint of old Johnny Jump Up
After drinkin a quart I went out to the yard
Where I met up with Brophy the big local guard
Come here to me boy don’t you know I’m the law
So I jumped up on the counter and kissed him on the jaw
We fell to the floor and we couldn’t get up
But it wasn’t me kissed him twas the Johnny Jump Up
And the next thing I met down in Youghal by the sea
Was a poor man on crutches and says he to me
I’m afraid of me life I’ll get hit by a car
Would you help me across to the Railwayman’s Bar?
After drinkin a pint of that cider so sweet
He threw down his crutches and danced round on his feet
A man died in the union by the name of McNab
They washed him and shaved him and laid him right out on the slab
And after the undertaker his measurements did take
His wife took him home to a very fine wake
It was about twelve o’clock and the beer it was high
The corpse he sat up and says he with a sigh
I can’t get into heaven for they won’t let me up
Till I bring them a drink of old Johnny Jump Up
O never O never O never again
If I live to a hundred or a hundred and ten
For I fell to the floor and I couldn’t get up
After drinking a pint of old Johnny Jump Up
…
Will ye go Lassie go (Wild Mountain Thyme)
Stephens note: A great rousing romantic chorus, often thought to be a Scottish song but seemingly Irish man Francis McPeake added the words to a Scottish tune to create this gem.
The ultimate song for Tour-guides and Tour-Drivers, it reminds us that our favourite time of year is nigh, summer is on the way, and we can escape our houses and wander off all over Ireland, welcoming guests who are giddy with the excitement of being on holiday. The art of hospitality and welcome has long been mastered in Ireland, if we ever lose that, we have lost everything.
I have no fear that we ever will.
…
O the summer time is coming
And the trees are sweetly bloomin’
And the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the bloomin’ heather
Will ye go
Lassie
Go?
Chorus:
And we’ll all go together
To pluck wild mountain thyme
All around the bloomin’ heather
Will ye go
Lassie
Go?
I will build my love a tower
By the purest crystal fountain
And on it I shall pile
All the flowers o’ the mountain
Will ye go
Lassie
Go?
(chorus)
If my true love she’ll not go
Then I’ll surely find another
Where the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the purple heather
Will ye go
Lassie
Go?
(chorus)
…
The Rebel
Ireland is rich in poetry.
Our visitors are surrounded by an abundance of the beautiful words of WB Yeats and other icons of Irish literature.
Rarely do they get to hear the equally beautiful words of Patrick Pearse (died for Ireland, 1916).
I recorded this in 2016 on the anniversary of his execution, when Dublin and the country was full of festivities and many citizens got introduced to Pearse, the writer and orator, for the first time.
…..
I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow;
Who have no treasure but hope,
No riches laid up but a memory of an ancient glory
My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born,
I am of the blood of serfs;
The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten
Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters,
And though gentle, have served churls.
The hands that have touched mine,
The dear hands whose touch Is familiar to me
Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles,
Have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers.
I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone I that have never submitted;
I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people’s masters,
I that have vision and prophecy, and the gift of fiery speech,
I that have spoken with God on the top of his holy hill.
And because I am of the people, I understand the people,
I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire;
My heart is heavy with the grief of mothers,
My eyes have been wet with the tears of children,
I have yearned with old wistful men,
And laughed and cursed with young men;
Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it
Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free
Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full,
Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and their jailors.
With their Writs of Summons and their handcuffs,
Men mean and cruel.
I could have borne stripes on my body
Rather than this shame of my people.
And now I speak, being full of vision:
I speak to my people, and I speak in my people’s name to
The masters of my people:
I say to my people that they are holy,
That they are august despite their chains.
That they are greater than those that hold them
And stronger and purer,
That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God,
God the unforgetting, the dear God who loves the people
For whom he died naked, suffering shame.
And I say to my people’s masters: Beware
Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people
Who shall take what ye would not give.
Did ye think to conquer the people, or that law is stronger than life,
And than men’s desire to be free?
We will try it out with you ye that have harried and held,
Ye that have bullied and bribed.
Tyrants… hypocrites… liars!
