The mist in this valley

hides the secret so well.

Of the patriots glory

and the price that was paid.

When the winds of November

blow in from the sea.

You van hear the ghosts whisper

“We fought to be free.”

 

Now the story is passed down.

From father to son.

In a language so ancient

‘round the fires of turfs.

They say all the stones

that scatter these fields.

Once where the cross’s

of all those who fell.

 

When the Britt’s came in marching

for empire and king.

Condemning the religion

as they raped the land.

The mothers cried out,

“God, look what they’ve done

stained the grass red

with the blood of our sons.

 

The famine came slowly

a rumor at first.

Then it spread like a fire

with an undying thirst.

Millions went walking

and millions they fell.

Their lips colored green

from the last meal they ate.

 

Some that survived

where packed into ships.

That sailed from the harbors

to a promised land.

FromNew York to Boston

cities built with their hands.

Using cold steel and concrete

mixed with blood and sweat.

 

Now like his father before him

and the father’s before that.

He tells the same story

to the child on his knee.

About the mist in the valley’s

and those fields of stone.

In that emerald green isle

that he still calls home.

© Michael de Jong ® Dutch Uncle Music STEMRA 2005