'An tOcras Mór' The Great Hunger.

Men and women of the Gael, you've been duped for years

By self-serving propaganda that's fallen on your ears

For the conqueror wrote the history books,

which were doctored just to say

That the world might understsand it in the proper English way.

A chairde dílse Gaelacha, nach oraibh dallach dubh!

Trí bholscaireacht fhéinchúiseach atá curtha go tréan tiubh,

Scríobh an cloíteoir cuntais, de réir a shainte fhéin,

Go gclaonfaí a cuid ghníomhara i dtíortha 'bfad i gcéin.

In 1838 the Irish Poor Law said

That you must stay put in Ireland and pay tax on corn for bread

And you mustn't gather seaweed or fish in streams or lakes

And the "Landlords own the coastline" where the Irish ocean breaks.

Ocht déag ocht is tríocha, bunaíodh an cháin,

De réir Dhlí Bocht na hÉireann, ar arbhar an aráin,

Gan bailiú iasc ná feamainne on bhfarraige mar ba gnáth,

Dúirt an riail dhaingean: "Is leis an tiarna 'n tháth!"

Now this wondrous law was authored to break the Irish race

By the same bloodline as Cromwell, who despised an Irish face

Or better still to force them off the land forever more

To wander up and down the roads, throughout all Province four.

Ba í cuspóir an dlí seo síor-bhriseadh na nGael,

Cúis ghránach do Phor Chromail iad, tá's ag cách an scéal,

B'fearr leo iad dibrithe, gan teach, gan teallach choích',

Ag sireadh Tír na hÉireann, ar fán sa lá, san oích'.

Now we all know what a famine is, at least we think we do

We've seen in Ethiopia, a definition true

With no water, grain or living thing on the parched desert floor

And every blade of scrub picked clean and not a chance for more.

Tuigimid an gorta, níl amhras againn faoi,

Chonacthas san Aetóip é, tír iomlán ina luí,

Gan uisce, grán, nó créatúr beo amuigh san fhásach lom,

Gach tráithnín tirim imithe, an léirscrios ann go trom.

What we've been told of Ireland is thus it was the same

But anyone who's been there must cringe at this dread claim

A land so lush in greenery, where fish and fowl abound

With fields of golden corn and wheat the entire country round.

Is deirtear gur in Éirinn a bhí an cás maraon,

Ach an té a chum an scéal sin, ón bhfírinne a chlaon,

Machairí fairsing' fliúirseacha, na héin 's na héisc is fearr

Talamh méith na tíre, atá torthúil ó bhun go barr.

But, 150 years ago, the Landlords taxed them well

Then sent the tax to England to help the coffers swell

Forcing the tenant farmers to subsist an "spuds" alone

And nothing else in their green land were they allowed to own.

Ach céad is caoga bliain ó shoin, ghearr na tiarnaí talún,

An cháin ar chuile bhluir', is sheol an brabach go Londún,

Ag fágáil feirmeoirí tionónta gan ach fataí fann' le n-ith',

Is ó shaibhreas chré na tíre, ní bhfaighidís rud ar bith.

Then, in 1845, came the first potato blight

Which began four years which have been called

"Ireland's Darkest Night"