| Oh father dear, I oft-times hear you speak of Erin’s isle
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| Her lofty hills, her valleys green, her mountains rude and wild
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| They say she is a lovely land wherein a saint might dwell
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| So why did you abandon her, the reason to me tell
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| Oh son, I loved my native land with energy and pride
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| Till a blight came o’er the praties; |
| my sheep, my cattle died
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| My rent and taxes went unpaid, I could not them redeem
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| And that’s the cruel reason why I left old Skibbereen
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| Oh well do I remember that bleak December day
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| The landlord and the sheriff came to take us all away
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| They set my roof on fire with their cursed English spleen
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| I heaved a sigh and bade goodbye to dear old Skibbereen
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| Your mother too, God rest her soul, fell on the stony ground
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| She fainted in her anguish seeing desolation 'round
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| She never rose but passed away from life to immortal dream
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| She found a quiet grave, me boy, in dear old Skibbereen
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| And you were only two years old and feeble was your frame
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| I could not leave you with my friends for you bore your father’s name
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| I wrapped you in my cóta mór in the dead of night unseen
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| I heaved a sigh and bade goodbye to dear old Skibbereen
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| Oh father dear, the day will come when in answer to the call
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| All Irish men of freedom stern will rally one and all
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| I’ll be the man to lead the band beneath the flag of green
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| And loud and clear we’ll raise the cheer, Revenge for Skibbereen! |