Rebel Songbook NO
O'Dwyer Of The Glen
Nelson's Farewell
New Generation
Nineteen Men
Ninety Miles From Dublin Town
No Irish Need Apply
No Time For Love
O'Donnell Abú
O'Donnell Of Tipperary
O'Donovan Rossa's Farewell
O'Dwyer Of The Glen
O'Hara, Hughes, McCreesh And Sands
Oft In The Stilly Night
Old Alarm Clock,The
Old Fenian Gun,The
On The Blanket
On The One Road
One Shot Paddy
One Sunday Morning
Only Our Rivers Run Free
Oró Sé Do Bheatha 'Bhaile
Oró, Sé Do Bheatha 'Bhaile
Ould Orange Flute, The
Outlaw Rapparee,The
Over The Wall

John O'Dwyer of the Glen (Seán Ó Duibhir a' Ghleanna)
Seán Ó Duibhir
Translated from the Irish by Frank O'Connor

When once I rose at morning
The summer sun was shining,
I heard the horn awinding
And the birds' merry songs;
There were badger and weasel,
Woodcock and plover,
And echo repeating
The music of the guns.
The hunted fox was flagging,
The horsemen followed shouting;
Counting her geese on the highway
Some woman's heart was sore;
But now the woods are falling
We must go over the water --
Seán O'Dwyer of the Valley
Your pleasure is no more.
There's cause enough for grieving,
All the woodlands falling,
The north wind comes freezing
With death in the sky;
My merry hound's tied tightly
From sporting and chasing
That would lift a young lad's sorrows
In noondays gone by.
The stag is up in Carrick,
His antlers high as ever;
He can enjoy the heather,
But our day is o'er;
Let the townsmen cease their prying,
And I'll take ship from Galway --
Seán O'Dwyer of the Valley,
Your pleasure is no more.
The homes of Coomasrohy
Have neither roof nor gable,
In Strade where birds are silent
No man recites its praise;
From Clonmel along the river
There is no shade or shelter,
And hares amid the clearings
Run safe all their days.
What is this thud of axes,
Trees creaking and falling,
The sweet thrush and the blackbird
In silence everywhere?
And -- certain sign of trouble --
Priest and their people
Flying to mountain valleys
To raise the word of prayer?
My only wish on waking
Is that I had ceased from caring
Before my own demesne lands
Were cause for my grief;
For through long days of summer
I rambled through their orchards
And oakwoods all green
With the dew on the leaf;
And now that I have lost them
And lonesome among strangers
I sleep among the bushes
Or mountain caves alone,
Either I'll find some quiet
To live as best contents me
Or leave them all behind me
For other men to own.