Last night as I lay dreaming of pleasant days gone by
My mind being bent on rambling to Ireland I did fly
I stepped on board a vision and followed with the wind
Till next I came to anchor at the cross near Spancill Hill

T'was on the 23rd June the day before the fair
When lreland's sons and daughters and friends assembled there
The young ,the old, the brave, the bold came their duty to fill
At the parish church at Cluney just a mile from Spancill Hill

I went to see my neighbours to hear what they might say
The old ones were all dead and gone the young one's turning grey
I met the tailor Quigley, he's bold as ever still
Sure he used to mend my britches when I lived at Spancill Hill

I paid a flying visit to my first and only love
She's fair as any lily and gentle as a dove
She threw her arms around me saying "Johnny I love you still"
She was Ned the farmer's daughter and the pride of Spancill Hill

I dreamt I held and kissed her as in the days of yore,
Johnny you’re only joking like many’s the time before.
When the cock he crew in the morning he crew both loud and shrill,
I awoke in California many miles from Spancill Hill.

A classic song written by Brendan Behan and made famous by the Dubliners, The Old Triangle.

A hungry feeling came o'er me stealing
And the mice were squealing
In my prison cell

And the old triangle
Went jingle jangle
All along the banks
Of the Royal Canal

To begin the morning
The warder's bawling
"Get out of bed
And clean up your cell"

And the old triangle
Went jingle jangle
All along the banks
Of the Royal Canal

On a fine spring evening
The lag lay dreaming
The seagulls wheeling
High above the wall

And the old triangle
Went jingle jangle
All along the banks
Of the Royal Canal

The screw was peeping
The lag was sleeping
While he lay weeping
For his girl Sal

And the old triangle
Went jingle jangle
All along the banks
Of the Royal Canal

The wind was rising
And the day declining
As I lay pining
In my prison cell

And the old triangle
Went jingle jangle
All along the banks
Of the Royal Canal

In the female prison
There are seventy women
I wish it was with them
That I did dwell

Then the old triangle
Could go jingle jangle
All along the banks
Of the Royal Canal

The day was dying
And the wind was sighing
As I lay cryingIn my prison cell

And the old triangle
Went jingle jangle
All along the banks
Of the Royal Canal
All along the banks
Of the Royal Canal

The term 'Highland Paddy' was given to Irishmen who had emigrated to Scotland, but who returned to Ireland to fight in the Rising of 1798.

You are welcome, Highland Paddy
And by my side you'll surely stand
Hear the people shout for freedom
We rise in the morning with the Fenian band

One evening fair as the sun was shining
To Kilkenny I did ride I did speak with Captain Brady
He'd a tall commander by his side
Oh sir I've come to fight for Ireland
For to drive the Saxon from our land
He laughed at me his eyes were shining
Ah but then he caught me by the hand

So in the morning we rose early
And just before the break of dawn
Blackbirds singing in the heather
Greeting us through the smiling band
And gather round ye men of Ireland
And raise your voices to the sky
Let the green flag fly forever
In the cause of freedom we'll fighting die

Oh in our town close by the river
On a lonely summer's day
I saw the captain sorely bleeding
Oh I knelt beside him and I heard him say
Oh fare thee well my Highland Paddy
Drive them from our countryside
Freedom is a word we cherish
And the bird was silent and this young man died

Oh all my life I will remember
Yes I'll remember night and day
Once I rode into Kilkenny
And I heard that noble Fenian say

We cannot let the month of July pass without including the classic ballad of the 1798 Rebellion, The Irish Soldier Laddie. The song remains hugely popular and is a standard at gatherings of Celtic supporters.

Twas a morning in July,
I was walking to Tipperary
When I heard a battle cry
From the mountains over head
As I looked up in the sky
I saw an Irish soldier laddie
He looked at me right fearlessly and said:

Will ye stand in the band like a true Irish man,
And go and fight the forces of the crown?
Will ye march with O'Neill to an Irish battlefield?
For tonight we go to free old Wexford town!

Said I to that soldier boy
"Won't you take me to your captain
T'would be my pride and joy
For to march with you today.
My young brother fell in Cork
And my son at Innes Carthay!"
Unto the noble captain I did say:

Will ye stand in the band like a true Irish man,
And go and fight the forces of the crown?
Will ye march with O'Neill to an Irish battlefield?
For tonight we go to free old Wexford town!

As we marched back from the field
In the shadow of the evening
With our banners flying low
To the memory of our dead
We returned unto our homes
But without my soldier laddie
Yet I never will forget those words he said:

Will ye stand in the band like a true Irish man,
And go and fight the forces of the crown?
Will ye march with O'Neill to an Irish battlefield?
For tonight we go to free old Wexford town.

Botany Bay was a penal colony in Australia. Besides deportees, free settlers flooded Australia. Initially most voluntary immigrants were tradesmen and farmers. Once their businesses and farms were established they experienced a lack of labour. Forced by the Great Famine and talked into programs to assist emigration, thousands left the poorer territories of Ireland and Scotland and tried to raise a life on the new continent.

Many will know this song from the Wolfe Tones' concerts of the 1980s and 90s.

Farewell to your bricks and mortar
Farewell to your dirty lies
Farewell to your gangers and gang planks
And to hell with your overtime
For the good ship RagamuffinS
he's lying at the quay
For to take oul Pat with a shovel on his back
To the shores of Botany Bay

I'm on my way down to the quay
Where the ship at anchor lays
To command a gang of navvys
That they told me to engage
I thought I'd drop in for a drink
Before I went away
For to take a trip on an emigrant ship
To the shores of Botany Bay

Farewell to your bricks and mortar
Farewell to your dirty lies
Farewell to your gangers and gang planks
And to hell with your overtime
For the good ship Ragamuffin
She's lying at the quay
For to take oul Pat with a shovel on his back
To the shores of Botany Bay
The boss came up this morning
He says "Well, Pat you know
If you don't get your navvys out
I'm afraid you'll have to go"
So I asked him for my wages
And demanded all my pay
For I told him straight, I'm going to emigrate
To the shores of Botany Bay

Farewell to your bricks and mortar
Farewell to your dirty lies
Farewell to your gangers and gang planks
And to hell with your overtime
For the good ship Ragamuffin
She's lying at the quay
For to take oul Pat with a shovel on his back
To the shores of Botany Bay

And when I reach Australia
I'll go and look for gold
There's plenty there for the digging of
Or so I have been told
Or else I'll go back to my trade
And a hundred bricks I'll lay
Because I live for an eight hour shift
On the shores of Botany Bay

Farewell to your bricks and mortar
Farewell to your dirty lies
Farewell to your gangers and gang planks
And to hell with your overtime
For the good ship Ragamuffin
She's lying at the quay
For to take oul Pat with a shovel on his back
To the shores of Botany Bay

This tune was written by J. P. McCall during the second half of the nineteenth century. Detached from the Society of United Irishmen, who were involved in a poorly planned rebellion in Dublin, Father John Murphy led some members of his parish in attacking a party of yeoman troopers on 26 May 1798 in the small village Boulavogue, or Boolavogue, in County Wexford. The troopers were defeated by the insurgents in the first of a small series of victories by the Wexford rebels which triggered the revival of the collapsed United Irishmen Rebellion in other parts of the country. The Wexford rebels were eventually defeated at Vinegar Hill and Father Murphy and the other rebel leaders were hanged.

At Boulavogue, as the sun was setting
O'er bright May meadows of Shelmalier,
A rebel hand set the heather blazing
And brought the neighbors from far and near.
Then Father Murphy, from old Kilcormack,
Spurred up the rocks with a warning cry;
"Arm! Arm!" he cried, "for I've come to lead you,
For Ireland's freedom we fight or die."

He led us on 'gainst the coming soldiers,
The cowardly Yeomen we put to flight;
'Twas at the Harrow the boys of Wexford
Showed Bookey's regiment how men could fight.
Look out for hirelings, King George of England,
Search every kingdom where breathes a slave,
For Father Murphy of the County Wexford
Sweeps o'er the land like a mighty wave.

We took Camolin and Enniscorthy,
And Wexford storming drove out our foes;
'Twas at Slieve Coillte our pikes were reeking
With the crimson stream of the beaten yeos.
At Tubberneering and Ballyellis
Full many a Hessian lay in his gore;
Ah, Father Murphy, had aid come over,T
he green flag floated from shore to shore!

At Vinegar Hill, o'er the pleasant Slaney,
Our heroes vainly stood back to back,
And the Yeos at Tullow took Father Murphy
And burned his body upon the rack.
God grant you glory, brave Father Murphy,
And open Heaven to all your men;
The cause that called you may call tomorrow
In another fight for the green again.

"Star of the County Down" is an old Irish ballad which has been re-recorded many times by acts including Van Morrison and the Chieftains, Paddy Reilly, and the Pogues.

The song is sung from the point of view of a young man who chances to meet a charming lady by the name of Rose McCann, referred to as the "star of the County Down". From a brief encounter the writer's infatuation grows until, by the end of the ballad, he plans to wed the girl.

Hear an extract of Van Morrison's version here:
http://sg1.allmusic.com/cg/smp.dll?link=vguw9t5c0z3p8co59nowlpn&r=20.asx

Near Banbridge town, in the County Down
One morning in July
Down a boreen green came a sweet colleen
And she smiled as she passed me by.
She looked so sweet from her two white feet
To the sheen of her nut-brown hair
Such a coaxing elf, I'd to shake myself
To make sure I was standing there.

From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay
And from Galway to Dublin town
No maid I've seen like the sweet colleen
That I met in the County Down.

As she onward sped I shook my head
And I gazed with a feeling rare
And I said, says I, to a passerby
"who's the maid with the nut-brown hair?"
He smiled at me, and with pride says he,
"That's the gem of Ireland's crown.
She's young Rosie McCann
from the banks of the Bann
She's the star of the County Down."

From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay
And from Galway to Dublin town
No maid I've seen like the sweet colleen
That I met in the County Down.

I've travelled a bit, but never was hit
Since my roving career began
But fair and square I surrendered there
To the charms of young Rose McCann.
I'd a heart to let and no tenant yet
Did I meet with in shawl or gown
But in she went and I asked no rent
From the star of the County Down.

From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay
And from Galway to Dublin town
No maid I've seen like the sweet colleen
That I met in the County Down.

At the crossroads fair I'll be surely there
And I'll dress in my Sunday clothes
And I'll try sheep's eyes, and deludhering lies
On the heart of the nut-brown rose.
No pipe I'll smoke, no horse I'll yoke
Though with rust my plow turns brown
Till a smiling bride by my own fireside
Sits the star of the County Down.

From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay
And from Galway to Dublin town
No maid I've seen like the sweet colleen
That I met in the County Down.

The song that provided the title of the excellent film by Ken Loach. It was written by Robert Dwyer Joyce (1836-1883), a Limerick born poet and professor of English literature.

The song is written from the perspective of a doomed young rebel who is about to sacrifice his relationship with his loved one and plunge into the cauldron of violence associated with the 1798 rebellion in Ireland. The references to barley in the song derive from the fact that the rebels often carried barley oats in their pockets as provisions for when on the march. This gave rise to the post-rebellion phenomenon of barley growing and marking the "croppy-holes", mass unmarked graves which slain rebels were thrown into, symbolising the regenerative nature of Irish resistance to British rule.

Christy Moore recorded a variant on this theme. "Green Island" appeared on his superb album "Smoke and Strong Whiskey" from the early 90s. It ended with the words "No force on Earth can ever trap the wind that shakes the barley, or the sun in the yellow corn".

I sat within the valley green, I sat me with my true love
My sad heart strove the two between, the old love and the new love
The old for her, the new that made me think on Ireland dearly
While soft the wind blew down the glen and shook the golden barley

'Twas hard the woeful words to frame to break the ties that bound us
But harder still to bear the shame of foreign chains around us
And so I said, "The mountain glen I'll seek at morning early
And join the bold united men, while soft winds shake the barley"

While sad I kissed away her tears, my fond arms round her flinging
The foeman's shot burst on our ears from out the wildwood ringing
A bullet pierced my true love's side in life's young spring so early
And on my breast in blood she died while soft winds shook the barley

But blood for blood without remorse I've taken at Oulart Hollow
And laid my true love's clay cold corpse where I full soon may follow
As round her grave I wander drear, noon, night and morning early
With breaking heart when e'er I hear the wind that shakes the barley

Old Irish drinking song about candle makers (waxies) on their annual trip to Bray, the seaside town south of Dublin. This song will be familiar to Pogues fans as it appeared on their first album, "Red Roses for Me" (1984). Live performances would feature Spider Stacy (the whistle player) smashing himself over the head with a beer tray during the chorus. Great days indeed.

Says my aul' wan to your aul' wan
"Will ye go to the Waxies dargle?"
Says your aul' wan to my aul' wan,
"Sure I haven't got a farthing.
I went down to Monto town
To see uncle McArdle
But he wouldn’t give me a half a crown
For to go to the Waxies dargle."

What’ll you have? I’ll have a pint
I'll have a pint with you, sir,
And if one of you doesn't order soon
We'll be chucked out of the boozer.

Says my aul' wan to your aul' wan
"Will ye go to the Galway races?"
Says your aul' wan to my aul' wan,
"With the price of my aul' lad's braces
I went down to Capel Street
To the Jewish moneylenders
But they wouldn't give me a couple of bob on
My aul' wan’s lad's suspenders. "

What’ll you have? I’ll have a pint
I'll have a pint with you, sir,
And if one of you doesn't order soon
We'll be chucked out of the boozer.

Says my aul' wan to your aul' wan
"We’ve got no beef nor mutton
But if we go down to Monto town
We’ll get a drink for nuttin'"
Here's a piece of sound advice
Got from an aul' fishmonger:
"When the food is scarce and you see the hearse
Then you'll know you’ve died of hunger".

What’ll you have? I’ll have a pint
I'll have a pint with you, sir,
And if one of you doesn't order soon
We'll be chucked out of the boozer.

This song is actually a poem written by Patrick Kavanagh, set to the tune "The Dawning of the Day". It was famously recorded by Van Morrison and The Chieftains on their classic album "Irish Heartbeat".



On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawning of the day.