'An tOcras Mór' The Great Hunger.

Anonymous

O, the praties they grow small

over here, over here.

O, the praties they grow small,

and they grow from spring to fall,

and we eat them skins and all,

over here, over here.

O, I wish that we were geese,

night and morn, night and morn,

O, I wish that we were geese,

For they fly and take their ease,

And they live and die in peace,

over here, over here.

O, we're trampled in the dust,

over here, over here,

O, we're trampled in the dust,

But the Lord in whom we trust,

will give us crumb for crust,

over here, over here.