Текст: Pogues. 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

As 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
And who'll fight with Gaelic honor 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

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 and iron will
As long as there are gallant men, like 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