The mist in this valley hides the secret so well
The patriot’s glory the price that was paid.
When the winds of November blow in from the sea
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 fires of turf.
They say that the stones that scatter these fields
Once where the crosses of all those that fell.
When the Brits came in marching for empire and King
Condemning the religion and raping 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
Spread like a fire with an undying thirst.
Millions went walking, millions they died
Their lips colored green from the last meal they ate.
Some that survived went on coffin ships
From Belfast and Dublin to the Promised land.
From New York to Boston cities built with their hands
Using cold steel and concrete, mixed with blood and sweat.
Like his father before him, his father ‘fore that,
He tells the same story to the child on his knee.
Of the mist in the valley and the stones in the fields
That emerald green Isle, he will always call home.
It’s just an Irish lullaby
© Michael de Jong ® Dutch Uncle Music STEMRA 2007