| Oh the Empire it is finished
|
| No foreign lands to seize
|
| So the greedy eye of England
|
| I stirring towards the seas
|
| Two hundred miles from Donegal
|
| There’s a place that’s called Rockall
|
| And the groping hands of Whitehall
|
| Are grabbing at it’s walls.
|
| Chorus:
|
| Oh rock on Rockall you’ll never fall
|
| For Britains greedy hands
|
| Oh you’ll meet the same resistance
|
| Like you did in many lands
|
| May the Seagulls rise and pluck your eyes
|
| And the water crush your shell
|
| And the natural gas will burn your ass
|
| And blow you all to hell
|
| This rock is part of Ireland
|
| For it’s written in folklore
|
| When Finn McCool took a sod of grass
|
| He threw it to the fore
|
| When he tossed a pebble across the sea
|
| Where ever did it fall
|
| For the sod became the Isle of Man
|
| Now the pebble’s called Rockall
|
| Chorus…
|
| Oh the seas will not be silent
|
| While Britannia grabs the waves
|
| And remember that the Irish
|
| Will no longer be your slaves
|
| And remember that Britannia well
|
| She rules the waves no more
|
| So keep your hands off Rockall
|
| It’s Irish to the core.
|
| Chorus… |