Have you ever walked the lonesome hills
And heard the curlews cry
seen the raven black as night
Upon a windswept sky
To walk the purple heather
And hear the westwind cry
that's where the rapparee must die.
Since Cromwell pushed us westward
To live our lowly lives
There's some of
us have deemed to fight
From Tipperary mountains high
Noble men with wills of iron
Who are not afraid to die
fight with gaelic honour held on high.
A curse upon you Oliver Cromwell
You who raped our Motherland
I hope you
're rotting down in hell
For the horrors that you sent
To our misfortunate forefathers
Whom you robbed of their birthright
hell or Connaught" may you bum in hell tonight.
Of one such man I'd like to speak
A rapparee by name and deed
family dispossessed and slaughtered
They put a price upon his head
His name is known in song and story
are legend still
And murdered for blood money
Was young Ned of the hill.
You have robbed our homes and fortunes
drove us from our land
You tried to break our spirit
But you'll never understand
The love of dear old Ireland
will forge an iron will
As long as there are gallant men
Like young Ned of the hill.