| The empire is finished no foreign lands to seize
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| And the greedy eyes of England are looking towards the seas
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| Two hundred miles from Donegal, there’s a place that’s called Rockall
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| And the groping hands of England are grabbing at its walls
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| Oh rock on Rockall, you’ll never fall to Britain’s greedy hands
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| Or you’ll meet the same resistance that you did in many lands
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| May the seagulls rise and pluck your eyes and the water crush your shell
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| And the natural gas will burn your ass and blow you all to hell
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| For this rock is part of Ireland, 'cos it' s written in folklore
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| That Fionn MacCumhaill took a sod of grass and he threw it to the fore
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| Then he tossed a pebble across the sea, where ever it did fall
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| For the sod became the Isle of Man and the pebble’s called Rockall
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| Oh rock on Rockall, you’ll never fall to Britain’s greedy hands
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| Or you’ll meet the same resistance that you did in many lands
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| May the seagulls rise and pluck your eyes and the water crush your shell
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| And the natural gas will burn your ass and blow you all to hell
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| Now the seas will not be silent, while Britannia rules the waves
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| And remember that the Irish will no longer be your slaves
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| Remember to Britannia, well, — you rule the waves no more
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| So keep your hands off Rockall — it’s Irish to the core
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| Oh rock on Rockall, you’ll never fall to Britain’s greedy hands
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| Or you’ll meet the same resistance that you did in many lands
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| May the seagulls rise and pluck your eyes and the water crush your shell
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| And the natural gas will burn your ass and blow you all to hell
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| Oh rock on Rockall, you’ll never fall |