| Well my name is Mick Ryan, I’m lyin still
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| In a lonely spot near where I was killed
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| By a red man defending his native land
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| In the place that they call Little Big Horn
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| And I swear I did not see the irony
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| When I rode with the Seventh Cavalry
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| I thought that we fought for the land of the free
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| When we rode from Fort Lincoln that morning
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| And the band they played the Garryowen
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| Brass was shining, flags a flowin
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| I swear if I had only known
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| I’d have wished that I’d died back at Vicksburg
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| For my brother and me, we had barely escaped
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| From the hell that was Ireland in forty eight
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| Two angry young lads who had learned how to hate
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| But we loved the idea of Amerikay
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| And we cursed our cousins who fought and bled
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| In their bloody coats of bloody red
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| The sun never sets on the bloody dead
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| Of those who have chosen an empire
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| But we’d find a better life somehow
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| In the land where no man has to bow
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| It seemed right then and it seems right now
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| That Paddy he died for the union
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| Ah, but Michael he somehow got turned around
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| He had stolen the dream that he thought he’d found
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| Now I never will see that holy ground
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| For I turned into something I hated
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| And I’m haunted by the Garryowen
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| Drums a beating, bugles blowin'
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| I swear if I had only known
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| I’d lie with my brother in Vicksburg
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| And the band they played that Garryowen
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| Brass was shin, flags a flowin'
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| I swear if I had only known, I’d lie with
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| My brother at Vicksburg |