To Hell Or To Connacht
To Hell or to Connacht was Cromwells's war cry
To poor Irish tenant farmers his cruel words did apply
Cromwell was a war criminal the facts never lie
To Hell or to Connacht were his words or die.
When Cromwell handed over the command of the Royalist Troops to Henry Ireton the results were the same
In human history their treatment of poor Irish people is a human shame
In their conquests of Ireland thousands of people died
Any form of human rights of them was denied.
Poor Irish tenant farmers were put on the road
To Connacht or to die of no fixed abode
Oliver Cromwell and Henry Ireton were far worse than cruel
They were despotic leaders who abused their rule.
Anyone who knows of history surely do know
Of the atrocities of the Crown forces in Ireland three and a half centuries ago
Cromwell and Ireton were horrible men
They must have been born in the Devil's den.
Some look on past history as over and gone
But in Ireland to Hell or to Connacht those words do live on
And thousands on walking to Connacht died of hunger and cold
The poor and forgotten their life stories untold.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
On Passing Cromwell Street
In Melbourne streets named in his honour though he does not warrant such fame
For he lived a life of dishonour yet he never felt any shame
For his crimes against the poor of Ireland the winners write the history they say
And historians are too kind to Cromwell the one who did awful things in his day.
He evicted the poor of rural Ireland those who only knew of poverty
And put them on the hard road to Connacht the victims of crimes against humanity
His army were thugs and not soldiers for they did things that soldiers ought not do
The winners always write the history though their version of history is often not true.
In Cromwell's time the winners wrote the history and the winners still write the history today
But for any crimes against humanity the winners too should be made to pay
But Cromwell and his army honoured for their crimes in Ireland against the poor defenceless poor
'Tis sad to think that one so unworthy of a place in history is secure.
To hell or to Connacht his catch cry he forced thousands of poor families on the road
To people who were penniless and innocent not one scrap of mercy he showed
Thousands of them died in the harsh Irish Winter when homelessness on them took it's toll
Because they were poor they were punished though their life circumstances beyond their control.
I think of the untruths of history each time I drive by Cromwell street
The history written by winners their history of lies and deceit
I say to myself they honour a tyrant and I struggle for to understand
Why they name a street after somebody who oppressed the poor of Ireland.
Andrew Marvell in verse glorified Cromwell but he was one who would not know
What Cromwell and his army got up to in Ireland in those bleak times centuries ago
But he only believed what they told him and they told him what he wanted to hear
History often written by unworthy people those who rule by terror and fear.
In Melbourne streets named in his honour his poor victims long forgotten and gone
Into the World of the forgotten but Cromwell's fame is living on
And the lessons we should have learned from history did not lead to a fair go for all
And the winners only write the story though the real truth they never recall.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Hell or Connacht
Once upon a time
in a nasty little war
Cromwell came to Ireland
like a blight upon our shore.
He waged war upon my people
in a genocidal style
but some revisionists might argue
he was merciful and mild.
At Drogheda he killed thousands,
what a slaughter that place saw,
at the hands of 'Christian' soldiers-
surely righteous was their cause.
Then, when the war was over
and all our blood was spent
the Gaels, who used to own the land,
all wound up paying rent
' To Hell or Connacht' is a phrase
sound biters did invent
I don't know if he uttered it
but its surely what he meant!
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Winners Write The History
That the winners write the war histories should not be the case
For war is a tragedy a human disgrace
And the losers in war see their Country destoyed
And the war history never written by the losing side.
Look at Oliver Cromwell victorious in war
The deeds of his glory from England known far
But those who write on Cromwell they never do tell
Of one who for poor people made life Earthly hell.
To the Catholics of Ireland Cromwell was a brute
The poor rural peasants he did persecute
Yet streets in his honour distant from England today
The winners only write the history so true what they say.
Efrain Rios Montt became President of Guatemala even though he
Was guilty of serious crimes against humanity
An old man now but for his crimes yet to pay
The winners write the history it's always been that way.
Augusto Pinochet in Chile has blood on his hands
And that he may die a free man seems hard to understand
And though loathed by many in Chile for his crimes of shame
The winners write the history and their's is the fame.
I've just mentioned a few for there are many more
Who have committed crimes against humanity but like it has been said before
that the winners write the history and that's how 'twill remain
And the mistakes of the past are repeated again.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On Reading Of Racism In Ireland
I always feel disappointed when of racism I read
And when I read of it in Ireland I feel very sad indeed
For racism in society should never have a place
And people should never be judged on their colour or their race.
As the Land of saints and scholars Ireland was known Worldwide
And the Irish people suffered and their rights to them denied
But the Irish in their sense of fair play could take a certain pride
And for their human rights and liberty the sons of Ireland died.
Poor migrants from Romania their possessions weigh light
To live and work in Ireland do they not have the right?
They may come un-invited but their numbers only small
And the Irish too are migrants as history will recall.
I read it's the Irish media that fans racism's flame
If this be so of their bad work they must feel a great shame
They cannot say in years to come the fault was never ours
When they first used the noxious spray that poisoned all the flowers.
I am an Irish migrant far from my native shore
And others treat me with respect than that one could not ask for more
A fair go for all people and for everyone fair play
Those words from centuries ago are relevant today.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Man's Inhumanity
We have read about New York's Twin Towers and Hiroshima in Japan
Just for us two examples of man's inhumanity to man
And of Hitler and his Holocaust one who lives on in illfame
And of Stalin and of Mao and their awful crimes of shame.
We've heard of Pol Pot in Cambodia millions did suffer when he did rule
Some with power at their disposal they can be so very cruel
But in truth they were no different to some of the rulers of today
Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe as a despot now leads the way.
Streets in some Cities honour Oliver Cromwell yet if we go back in time
Against poor Catholic Irish peasants he committed many a crime
But 'tis said the winners write the war history with that one must agree
And Cromwell he is honoured for his crimes against humanity.
Idi Amin of Uganda of old age in exile died
The unmarked graves of his Homeland his shame forever hide
And up to a million Tutsis in Rwanda by their fellow Rwandans butchered to death
And this only in the recent past history repeats itself lest we forget.
We have not learned from history or so 'twould seem that way
So many despotic leaders in the World of today
And the Twin Towers of New York and Hiroshima in Japan
Are only two examples of man's inhumanity to man.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
King Cahill's Farewell To The Rye Field
WRITTEN TO THE LONDONDERRY AIR
'Tira autumn sun your shadow's flung, my Cahill,
Upon the field where now your reapmg's done,
Lo, there! And lo! Your reaper's wreath of rushes
Is on your forehead like a kingly crown.
'And I have come to name you King of Connacht,
And bid you where O'Connor's muster grows:
No shadow-king, but one to front the Norman,
And rear the standard that all Eire knows.'
'Farewell,' he said, 'farewell the field I've sickled,
Farewell the youths whose backs were bent with mine,
Farewell the maids whose singing now comes to me
'O Brighid, bless our fields, our roofs, our kine!''
'No Norman keep shall frown above your labors,
No pale they'll make to hold our Irish deer;
A true-born scion of Connacht's kings, I go now:
This brand, my father's sword, shall lead your axe,
your spear.'
poem by Padraic Colum
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Give Ireland Back To The Irish
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Great britian you are tremendous
And nobody knows like me
But really what are you doin
In the land across the sea
Tell me how would you like it
If on your way to work
You were stopped by irish soliders
Would you lie down do nothing
Would you give in, or go berserk
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Great britian and all the people
Say that all people must be free
Meanwhile back in ireland
Theres a man who looks like me
And he dreams of God and country
And hes feeling really bad
And hes sitting in a prison
Should he lie down do nothing
Should give in or go mad
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
Give ireland back to the irish
Dont make them have to take it away
Give ireland back to the irish
Make ireland irish today
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Ireland Shall Rebel
WHILE tyrants rule the land,
Beneath the Irish skies;
While e’er the iron hand
Upon our people lies;
While sons are driven forth
In other lands to dwell,
Still in the South and North
Old Ireland will rebel!
Rebel, rebel!
Old Ireland will rebel!
While fanlike from below,
And pale against the skies,
That light of shame—the glow
Of burning homes—shall rise;
While hot indignant tears
From Irish hearts shall swell:—
Be it a thousand years,
Old Ireland will rebel!
Rebel, rebel!
Old Ireland will rebel!
Until the tyrant’s rod
Shall broken be in twain,
And on the dear old sod
Blest freedom treads again;
Or till our masters learn
To rule our country well,
The fires of hate shall burn!—
Old Ireland will rebel!
Rebel, rebel!
Old Ireland will rebel!
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Young Ned Of The Hill
Have you ever walked the lonesome hills
And heard the curlews cry
Or seen the raven black as night
Upon a windswept sky
To walk the purple heather
And hear the westwind cry
To know that's where the rapparee must die
Since cromwell pushed us westward
To live our lowly lives
There's some of us have deemed to fight
From tipperary mountains high
Noble men with wills of iron
Who are not afraid to die
Who'll fight with gaelic honour held on high
A curse upon you oliver cromwell
You who raped our motherland
I hope you're rotting down in hell
For the horrors that you sent
To our misfortunate forefathers
Whom you robbed of their birthright
"to hell or connaught" may you burn in hell tonight
Of one such man i'd like to speak
A 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 blood money
Was young ned of the hill
A curse upon you oliver cromwell
You who raped our motherland
I hope you're rotting down in hell
For the horrors that you sent
To our misfortunate forefathers
Whom you robbed of their birthright
"to hell or connaught" may you burn in hell tonight
You have robbed our homes and fortunes
Even drove us from our land
You tried to break our spirit
But you'll never understand
The love of dear old ireland
That will forge an iron will
As long as there are gallant men
Like young ned of the hill
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Mangan
Arguably the greatest poet old Ireland has seen
'Twas he penned the poem known as 'Dark Rosaleen'
In eighteen forty nine in his mid forties in poverty he died
Though true genius of him never can be denied
The great James Clarence Mangan Ireland's National bard
His journey through life was to say the least hard
He lived as he died in abject poverty
Yet one could not name many poets as great as he
From consumption and poor diet and neglect he died very young
For him no State funeral and he was unsung
Despite his hard life it seems a remarkable feat
That so many great poems the great poet did bequeath
To Ireland and it's people though he died just past his prime
As one of the poor souls of the Dublin of his time.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My Fight For Irish Freedom
'My fight for Irish freedom' the autobiography of Dan Breen
But perhaps he should have called his book 'When young blood stained the green'
For human blood for freedom too huge a price to pay
And liberty or freedom define it anyway.
The freedom of expression whatever that might be
To speak our minds on certain things we are not truly free
Look at poor Salman Rushdie his book you may have read
For his satanic verses some people want him dead.
From the point I am about to make you may think I tend to stray
And what has Rushdie got to do with Irish freedom you might say
But for freedom of expression there has been a World-wide
fight
And yet fear is a deterrent to a basic human right.
The fight for Irish freedom whatever that might mean
For there is more to freedom than the 'wearing of the green'
In Ireland like all Nations there is inequality
Of prejudice and class distinction the World is yet not free.
The ill fated Easter Rising in Dublin of the year nineteen sixteen
And my fight for Irish freedom the story of Dan Breen
Is living on in history yet do we understand
That there is more to freedom than owning a piece of land.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On Reading Poems Of Mangan
Many of his verses tell of his great sadness
The hardships through life he had to endure
He lived in the hungry years of the great famine
And he knew what it was like to be poor.
His father James a Limerick man from Shanagolden
'About that place there is a famous song'
And his mother Catharine Smith from Fishamble Street in Dublin
Quite poor and to poor kindred she belong.
But circumstance of birth doesn't seem to hinder genius
Though wisdom from the poor is seldom quote
And though Mangan's verse today may seem neglected
He surely was a major Irish poet.
He never had his poems published in England
And outside of Ireland he's almost unknown
But his 'Dark Rosaleen' perhaps will live forever
And it took a genius to write such a poem.
He himself said Dark Rosaleen was from the Irish of Costello
And that into English 'Roisin Duibh' he did translate
But many critics say the poem is quite original
And that in any case it lives as something great.
One of Ireland's greatest poets James Clarence Mangan
But in the literary World a near forgotten name
And I have my doubts if there were many better
And he is worthy of a greater fame.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Catholic To His Ulster Brother
Is there no bond of blood to you, my brother?
Who have called her ours, the ancient Mother,
And here we hope to rest from Life's temptation
Building of souls our patriotic Nation.
Can we not stand amongst the purple heather
To find that God we both revere together?
Beneath this sky can come no bigot preaching
To fling our lofty dreams to lowly teaching.
William or James, need we still hate each other
For their dead sakes, my Irish-hearted brother?
Can we not pray without fear of dissension
'God save our land' with but the same intention?
If we from Derry walls were flung defeated,
And you from Limerick town in speed retreated,
One God is ours no matter what religion,
One land we love and shall not have division.
Shall we divide? Ah, better take the token
Of Ireland's luck and leave the shamrock broken
Of one green leaf, when four brought joy upon it,
As Ulster lost—from Munster, Leinster, Connacht.
But Ulster lost with each green sod still crying
For those dear dead who left us dreams undying
Of Ireland's needs, O'Neill whose heart took fire
And joined the sacred flames of Hugh Maguire.
Shall we not cry 'Lamh Dearg abu' and glory
In Cromwell's fall, in reading Clonmel's story,
Or by the 'Yellow Ford' who cheered most loudly
As hand from hand we passed the same flag proudly?
Yea, we have gone with joyous hearts to follow
Men of your thought by mountain, hill and hollow,
Died for them, lived again, loved down the ages
To bless them yet upon historic pages.
Emmet and Tone! Ah, half our pride uprooted,
We were but dead if we such names refuted,
Our well-beloved, dear brothers of our Sireland,
We call with them 'For God and Holy Ireland.'
And do we mourn our Owen Roe less sadly,
Or hold Lord Edward's claim more loved or gladly,
Because of 'popish' ways of Owen's praying,
Or Edward went to other altars straying?
Do we forget or could our fond faith slacken
A patriot's glow in owning Joy MacCracken,
Who Belfast-born has helped the island's story
And shed from Antrim's hills a sunrise glory.
Mitchel or Meagher! Ah, hear the dear names falling
On no deaf ears, we welcome to you calling,
'O dead long gone, O dead of recent slaying,
From your chill hands we take the banner, praying.'
Where this dear land forbids us to forsake her,
Join with the one sweet voice to the same Maker,
'Our hate is one, our love is one the other,
Lead on! or follow, O my Irish brother.'
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When the Irish Flag Went By
’Twas Eight-Hour Day, and proudly
Old Labour led the way;
The drums were bearing loudly,
The crowded streets were gay;
But something touched my heart like pain,
I could not check the sigh
That rose within my bosom when
The Irish Flag went by.
Bright flags were raised about it
And one of them my own:
And patriots trod beneath it—
But it seemed all alone.
I thought of ruined Ireland
While crystals from the sky
Fell soft like tears by angels shed,
As the Irish Flag went by.
I love the dark green standard
As Irish patriots do;
It waves above the rebels,
And I’m a rebel too,
I thought of Ireland’s darkest years,
Her griefs that follow fast;
For drooping as ’twere drenched with tears
The Irish Flag went past.
And though ’twas not in Erin
That my forefathers trod;
And though my wandering footsteps
Ne’er pressed the “dear old sod”,
I felt the wrongs the Irish feel
Beneath the northern sky.
And felt the rebel in my heart
When the Irish Flag went by.
I tell you, men of England,
Who rule the land by might;
I tell you, Irish traitors
Who sell the sons of light,
The tyranny shall fail at last,
That changeful days are nigh;
And you shall dip your red flag yet,
When the Irish Flag goes by.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
You Will Find Poverty
You will find poverty in the U S and Great Britain, in France and in Japan,
In Canada and in Australia, New Zealand as well as Iran
In South America and Europe, Africa and all through Asia as well
Throughout the Human World some in their Earthly Hell
In the past decade millions of people of hunger have died
As the gap between the haves and the have nots grow wide
In the World's wealthiest Countries homeless people not rare
So many poor people for every millionaire
And the social divide growing wider by the day
And that the poor are growing poorer does seem sad to say
In The Human World poverty of varying degrees
In the refugee camps millions of refugees
And poverty not a stranger anywhere
So many poor souls in the big World out there.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Written In February 2000
You told me of the peace in Northern Ireland
And for lasting peace in Ireland you did pray
But now I hear that the hard won peace is endangered
Since the terrorists won't give their bombs and guns away.
The Ulster paramilitaries have failed to disarm
So I heard in the news the other day
They want to destabilize the peace agreement
The Loyalist terrorists and the I R A.
The large majority want peace in Northern Ireland
And to the cause of fair play remain true
But to wreck the goodwill brought on by power sharing
It will only take the bad destructive few.
I've heard about the fight for Irish freedom
And the stories of famous battles I recall
But is any Country worth killing or dying for?
There's more to freedom than that after all.
And the people of Ireland by goodwill will be united
For human love will always conquer hate
And there still is hope for lasting peace in Ireland
Since the terrorists there are seen as out of date.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
You Tell Me Of Your Australian History
You tell me of your Australian history your ancestors were British and Irish pioneers
But your history in this Land is not an old history just two centuries and twenty years
And in time that may seem quite a long span though the combined life spans of three people nothing more
Your ancestors hardly were Aussies they came here from a distant shore.
The first Australians have lived in this Country for longer than most care to know
Their ancestors came here from Asia more than sixty thousand years ago
They are indigenous to this Country all others have links to elsewhere
Yet they still struggle for recognition and that to me seems quite unfair.
Dispossessed by the Northern invaders they never did get back their Land
And that they are now ruled by white people I find that hard to understand
You talk of the history of this Land as if it were only two hundred years old
But then suppose the history of the ancient Dreamtime by white people will never be told.
I was not even born in this Country which makes you more Aussie than I
And though I'm not Nationalistic or Patriotic my heritage I won''t deny
You talk of your pioneering ancestors but why talk of Human history at all
If the history of the first Australians you do not see fit to recall.
You tell me of your pioneering ancestors but one fact you tend to ignore
That they were not born in this Country they came here from a foreign shore
You''d swear by you the Human history of this Land was only two centuries old
But the true history of this great Country by your type will never be told
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Flag Issue at Parkhead in the Fifties
In Scotland in the fifties,
In football terms,
Protest was a blaze
From the grumpy old chairmen,
They took to a cause
That never since has died;
The flying of Ireland’s flag
Over Parkhead’s sky.
So bold Robert Kelly,
Born to Celtic’s dynasty,
Acted upon his heart
And wrote himself into history,
He sat at his desk
With pen in hand,
And wrote a letter, for a favour,
From the Irish PM.
“Dear Mr.DeValera,
How have you been?
Have you been reading the results
Of the bhoys in green?
Our attendance at Parkhead
Improves with every game,
I just wish our football
Would improve the same.”
“I have a small plea,
In this letter I ask,
As Celtic’s being condemned
For flying Ireland’s flag,
We’re proud of the fathers
Who built this club,
Proud of our heritage
As Ireland’s sons.”
“Ireland’s flag,
We’ll never take down,
But protest galore
May be reaching the crown,
So the teams in Scotland
Have gathered as a unit,
And turned the flag issue
Into a game of politics.”
“I took a walk around Parkhead,
It was a sunny day,
And noticed our flag of old,
Is starting to fray,
To the establishment of football,
I would just love to brag,
Can Ireland, our brother,
Deliver Celtic a new flag? ”
The letter was stamped
And mailed to Dublin,
By special delivery
Not carrier pigeon,
And DeValera, in the penmanship
Of Yeats’ ghost,
Wrote, “No problem, son,
It’s in the post.”
Oct'25th 2003
poem by Daniel McDonagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
If You're Lucky Enough To Be Irish
If you're lucky enough to be Irish
Then you're lucky enough they say.
I count my Irish blessings,
As I breathe the air each day.
When I'm somewhere o'er the water
Not walking Erin's shore,
I know my resting place will be
In Ireland for evermore.
I have Irish songs on my lips,
And Irish blood in my veins,
So I tell you I'm lucky to be Irish,
And I'll keep telling you over again.
I'm lucky enough to be Irish.
My children who walk by my side,
Will I hope, too feel the calling,
And someday walk Erin's fields wide.
poem by Rosi Caswell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Fond Memories Of The Irish Travellers
The wanderlust was in them and they moved from place to place
In their horse drawn gipsy caravans but they were a happy race
Of people for they had the gift of music and they had the gift of song
And to the dispossessed of Cromwell their ancestry belong.
I loved their pinto horses in their coats of white and brown
As they trotted down the byways towards another country Town
They parked by a quiet crossroad a few days prior to the horse fair
And around their camp fires they sang their songs and drank their grog in the chilly night air.
Their nickname it was 'Tinker' since they were tinsmiths by trade
And their women travelled from door to door for to sell the tin pots and cans their husbands made
But they did not like the Tinker name when to them it was referred
The tag of travelling people they very much preferred.
The late fifties brought much change in Ireland for those of no fixed abode
And the sharp increase in motor cars and trucks forced their horse drawn vans off of the road
And though nothing last forever it has always been that way
Fond memories of the Irish Travellers till my end with me will stay.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!