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作曲 : Derek Warfield |
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When Erin called the brave and true to strike the tyrant down |
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And freedom’s voice in thunder flew through valley, camp, and town. |
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When our old flag of green and gold was to the breeze upthrown, |
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The first to step beneath its fold was Mike from Garryowen. |
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For Ireland and her holy cause his heart was all aglow, |
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And to the Saxon tyrant’s laws a firm unflinching foe. |
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In manners mild, yet fierce in fight, with muscle, blood and bone, |
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To strike a blow for Ireland’s right – brave Mike from Garryowen! |
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In ’48 by Meagher’s side he roamed an outlawed man, |
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Forced like the wolf his head to hide on the bleak old Slievenamon, |
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And hunted down by the Saxon sway from country, love, and home |
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With a heavy heart he sailed away, far, far from Garryowen. |
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And long he waited, watched, and prayed that once more he might see |
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The boys in battle line arrayed, the Sunburst floating free. |
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To see poor Erin’s exiles stand defiant, firm, alone! |
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To strike one blow for Motherland, and one for Garryowen! |
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And when O’Neill our banner raised on Limestone Ridge that day |
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Mike’s Irish blood with ardour blazed, impatient for the fray. |
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No slave was he to brook control nor bend to foreign throne. |
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A spotless Fenian, heart and soul, was Mike from Garryowen. |
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And when he formed in battle line dressed in his Irish green |
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Firm as the rugged mountain pine with bold defiant mien. |
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You’d think you saw Lord Edward there, brave Emmet, or Wolfe Tone, |
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His was the heart to do or dare – bold Mike from Garryowen! |
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By heaven, t’was worth a brave man’s life to see our columns tread |
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To see the green flag in the strife wave o’er the English red. |
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And when the battle cry went out with bold and fearless tone |
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The loudest cheer, the boldest shout, was Mike from Garryowen! |
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And on the scarlet hirelings came, to crush us in their might |
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Their rifles blazing fire and flame, their bayonets shining bright. |
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Fierce is the fight; at every stroke, a foe is overthrown! |
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As in the fire, and flame, and smoke dashed Mike from Garryowen! |
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I saw him stand among his foe, the bayonets flashing ‘round |
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I saw him in his death grip close, his life blood on the ground. |
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I saw him stand and gasp for breath, I heard his latest moan. |
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And Sarsfield died no braver death than Mike from Garryowen. |
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We wrapped him in his Irish green and laid him down to rest |
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Beside the fair Canadian stream, the shamrock on his breast |
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And brothers, comrades, ne’er forget, we’ve yet to claim our own, |
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And strike a blow for Ireland yet, like Mike from Garryowen. |
