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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 12:48:42 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 12:50:44 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 13:19:14 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 13:20:41 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 13:26:35 GMT -5
Starting young:
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 13:29:17 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 13:46:31 GMT -5
An old rebel song adapted from Jacobean days.
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 13:50:01 GMT -5
Hail, oh woman, who was so afflicted, It was our ruin that you were in chains, Our fine land in the possession of thieves... While you were sold to the foreigners! Chorus: Oh-ro, welcome home Oh-ro, welcome home Oh-ro, welcome home Now that summer's coming! Grace O'Malley is coming over the sea, Armed warriors as her guard, Only Gaels are they, not French nor Spanish... and they will rout the foreigners! Chorus May it please the King of Prodigy that we might see, Although we may live but one week after, Gráinne Mhaol and a thousand warriors... Dispersing the foreigners! Chorus
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 13:53:44 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 14:03:03 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 14:09:41 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 19:32:57 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 19:44:20 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 19:47:31 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 19:48:56 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 19:56:35 GMT -5
If I should fall from grace with god
Where no doctor can relieve me
If I'm buried 'neath the sod
But the angels won't receive me
Let me go, boys
Let me go, boys
Let me go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry
This land was always ours
Was the proud land of our fathers
It belongs to us and them
Not to any of the others
Let them go, boys
Let them go, boys
Let them go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry
Bury me at sea
Where no murdered ghost can haunt me
If I rock upon the waves
Then no corpse can lie upon me
It's coming up threes, boys
Keeps coming up threes, boys
Let them…
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 20:03:44 GMT -5
The last time I saw you was down at the Greeks
There was whiskey on Sunday and tears on our cheeks
You sang me a song as pure as the breeze
Blowing up the road to glenaveigh
I sat for a while at the cross at finnoe
Where young lovers would meet when the flowers were in bloom
Heard the men coming home from the fair at shinrone
Their hearts in tipperary wherever they go
Take my hand, and dry your tears babe
Take my hand, forget your fears babe
There's no pain, there's no more sorrow
They're all gone, gone in the years babe
I sat for a while by the gap in the wall
Found a rusty tin can and an old hurley ball
Heard the cards being dealt, and the rosary called
And a fiddle playing sean dun na ngall
And the next time I see you we'll be down at the Greeks
There'll be whiskey on Sunday and tears on our cheeks
For it's stupid to laugh and it's useless to bawl
About a rusty tin can and an old hurley ball
So I walked as day was dawning
Where small birds sang and leaves were falling
Where we once watched the row boats landing
By the broad majestic shannon
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 20:09:50 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2019 20:18:35 GMT -5
Cait O'Riordan on vocals.
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 16, 2019 12:27:14 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 16, 2019 12:55:46 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 16, 2019 13:13:12 GMT -5
Last night as I slept
I dreamt I met with Behan
I shook him by the hand and we passed the time of day
When questioned on his views
On the crux of life's philosophies
He had but these few clear and simple words to say
I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
I have cursed, bled and sworn
Jumped bail and landed up in jail
Life has often tried to stretch me
But the rope always was slack
And now that I've a pile
I'll go down to the Chelsea
I'll walk in on my feet
But I'll leave there on my back
Because I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
Oh the words that he spoke
Seemed the wisest of philosophies
There's nothing ever gained
By a wet thing called a tear
When the world is too dark
And I need the light inside of me
I'll walk into a bar
And drink fifteen pints of beer
I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
Where streams of whiskey are flowing
Songwriters: Shane Patrick Lysaght Macgowan
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 16, 2019 13:22:32 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 16, 2019 15:13:59 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 16, 2019 23:02:39 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 16, 2019 23:04:12 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Apr 10, 2019 23:23:31 GMT -5
Waxie's Dargle
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Post by zenwalk on Apr 13, 2019 17:11:17 GMT -5
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Post by apexbud on Apr 17, 2019 1:06:43 GMT -5
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Post by zenwalk on Mar 15, 2020 15:53:15 GMT -5
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