Track 7: Young Ned of the Hill
arranged by The MacLeods
Have you ever walked the lonesome hills
And heard the Curlews cry
Or seen the raven black as night
Upon the windswept sky?
To walk the purple heather
And hear the westwind cry
To know that's where the rapparee must DIE.
A curse upon you, Oliver Cromwell,
You who rapped your motherland!
I hope you're rottin' down in hell
For the horrors that you sent
To our misfortunate forefathers
Whom you robbed of their birthright
To hell Connaught, may you burn in hell tonight!!!
And since Cromwell pushed us westwards
To live our lowly lives
Some of us have deemed to fight
From Tipperary mountains high
Noble men with wills of iron,
Who are not afraid to die
And fight with Gaelic honour held on high.
Of such a man I'd like to speak
Rapparee by name and deed
His family dispossessed and slaughtered
They put a price upon his head
His name is known in song and story
His deeds are legends still
And murdered for black money was the Young Ned of the Hill!
And you robbed our and fortunes
Even drove us from land
You tried to break our spirit
But you'll never understand
That the love for dear old Ireland
Has forged an iron will
As long as there are gallant men like Young Ned of the Hill!