Have you ever walked the lonesome hills
And heard the curlews cry?
Or seen the raven black as night upon a windswept sky?
To walk the purple heather and hear the westwind cry
To know that's where the rapparee must die
♪
Yet since Cromwell pushed us westward
To live our lowly lives
Some of us have deemed to fight
From Tipperary Mountains high
Noble men with wills of iron who are not afraid to die
And will fight with Gaelic honour held on high
A curse upon you, Oliver Cromwell
You who raped our motherland
I hope you're rotting down in hell
For the horrors that you sent
To our misfortunate forefathers
Whom you robbed of their birthright
To hell or Connaught, may you burn in hell tonight
Of one such man I'd like to speak
A rapparee by name and deed
His family dispossessed and slaughtered
They put a price upon his head
His name is known in song and story
And his deeds are legends still
And murdered for blood money
Was young Ned of the hill
When you have robbed our homes and fortunes
Even drove us from our land
Yours tried to break our spirit, but you'll never understand
The love of dear old Ireland that will forge an iron will
As long as there are gallant men like young Ned of the hill
A curse upon you, Oliver Cromwell
You who raped our motherland
I hope you're rotting down in hell
For the horrors that you sent
To our misfortunate forefathers
Whom you robbed of their birthright
To hell or Connaught, may you burn in hell tonight