| Oh, father dear, I ofttimes hear you speak of Erin’s Isle
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| Her lofty scenes, her valleys green, her mountains rude and wild
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| They say it`s a lovely land wherein a prince might dwell
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| Then why did you abandon her, the reason to me tell
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| My son, I loved my native land with energy and pride
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| Then a blight came over all my crops and my sheep and cattle died
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| The rents and taxes were to pay, I could not them redeem
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| And that’s the cruel reason I left old Skibereen
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| How well I do remember that bleak November day
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| When the bailiff and the landlord came to drive us all away
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| They set the roof on fire with their cursed English spleen
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| And that’s another reason I left old Skibereen
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| Your mother, too, God rest her soul, lay on the snowy ground
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| She fainted in her anguishing seeing the desolation round
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| She never rose, but passed away from life to immortal dreams
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| And that’s another reason I left old Skibereen
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| Oh 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 cota mor at the dead of the night unseen
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| And I heved a sigh and I said goodbye to dear old Skibereen
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| Oh father dear the day will come when on vengeance we will call
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| And Irishmen both stout and tall will rally unto the call
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| I`ll be the man to lead the van beneath the flag of green
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| And loud and high we will raise the cry revenge for Skibereen |