| In the year of forty seven a new tradition came home
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| From necessity came a brand new name
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| For the hunger that stalked their bones
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| They got their affairs in order
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| And gathered their friends around
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| What was left of the food and the whiskey too
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| Was rounded up from this town
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| Well they listened to the lies and the stories
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| A last chance to look them in the eye
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| Lik a walking corpse behind the hors
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| And you didn’t even get to die
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| An American Wake was all they had
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| They never went back to their native land
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| They left to find a place to stand
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| With everything they could take
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| But first they had to face their American Wake
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| Well the Brits all said it was coming
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| The famine was willed by God
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| The Tory crimes of the London Times
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| Sent many to die in the fog
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| Some gave gifts for the journey
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| Some only had tears and a prayer
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| An eleven week ride when they caught the tide
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| If they even lived halfway there
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| An American Wake was all they had
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| They never went back to their native land
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| They left to find a place to stand
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| With everything they could take
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| First they had to face their American Wake
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| Then a jig was danced, a one last chance
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| For the father to face the son
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| As the keener wailed they could count the sails
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| In the rising of the sun
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| There were blessings and toasts, they buried old ghosts
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| And they drank to the now and then
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| As the minutes passed by they tried to deny
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| They would never see Ireland again |