Fire in the Glen

The Irish are Rising

Molly was a girl who lived life in Dublin,
She died of a fever late in the fall,
But here is the part that still is so troublin' --
Three evenings later, from her grave she did crawl.

She was a fishmonger, she sold mussels too,
From her 'barrow she sold all the seafood you'd wish,
But when she returned with her skin greenish-blue,
Her stench was far stronger than all of her fish.

Oh the Irish are rising, but not like you'd think,
It's oh so surprising to see all the dead on their feet,
With Guinness and whiskey and warm blood to drink,
And sailors and beggars and fiddlers to eat.

Good Captain Farrell kept law in the town,
When highwaymen lurked he was good for the chase,
But one night he was shot -- he died and fell down,
Then got up and chewed off his murderer's face.

Tim Finnegan loved to drink whiskey and wine,
When he fell from his ladder, we thought he was dead,
But he rose at his wake and he said he was fine,
'Til dead Captain Farrell bit off his head.


The dead paddies have risen, and so has the moon,
They're invading England in Johnson's old car.
With dead pipers to play them a dusty old tune,
They might have freed Erin if they'd not seen that bar.

Then with guts leaking Guinness, they grabbed guns, pikes and ale,
With moldering brains, dreamed of Ireland free.
But reaching the coastline, they cursed, cried and wailed --
They'd march straight to London if they could get 'cross the sea.


discontinued verses:

The ghost of poor Molly still wanders the heath,
In clothes quite revealing she shrieks and she moans,
But approach her too closely, she'll show you her teeth,
She'll nibble your neck and she'll gnaw on your bones.

I'll never forget poor Pat Murphy's death,
We waked him full well to mark his sad end,
But here is the part that still takes my breath,
He came back to the pub and he ate his best friend.

There's Yeats, Wilde and Joyce, munching brains with their tea,
There's old William Bloat, with a tie 'round his neck,
And Barrett's poor pirates, luckless men all at sea,
And McGinty's mad goat, who blew himself straight to heck.

But saddest of all is that fine Irish dog,
Whose dying howls chill you and leave your blood numb,
Rover drowned when his ship circled round in a fog,
But he'll still hump your leg for a glass of black rum.

Lyrics by Tom Knapp, tune by Chet Williamson.

Back to the Fire in the Glen home page.