Vinegar Hill


Without a horse upon a mountain of gorse
Irish laid the British down,
knights in the gale no match for cudgels
rocks or the Irish brawn.

A country to be born by thrust and lunge
king’s men no match for a pawn,
there through the darkest of 1000 years passed
liberty broke into the common dawn.

Stand on the ground of time profound
Irish flowers grow of their own free will,
that was the moment when history paid
by the battle for Vinegar Hill.

Sythes and pitchforks were held so high
to the crooked queen and king,
onward through poverty’s centuries
Irish hearts would proudly sing.

Fighting the crown from Wexford town,
to the banks of Enniscorthy Slaney,
spirits fought with unbearable bonds
cross Ireland green and rainy.

Over there, over there, the cannon balls
in Ireland’s ground so deep,
along with the tired exploited Irish
so younger hearts could beat.

So raise your glass to proud history past,
as night will turn to day,
charms will flow in river’s blood of gold,
to the banks of an Irish bay.


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