Kids wear white garters, and smell like their mothers
whose husbands and fathers alike
drink black beer in the same public houses
smelling of smoke and strong whiskey.
Mammies and daddies, skipping ropes,
lectures from priests, living in hope
that they've not mistaken the brand of their coats,
paid for by their spiritual teachings.
A busy year this, the streets running red,
how many sent to their nuptial bed.
And how many sent home to a winter of graves,
and how many wait in for the slaughter.
Oh, oh, the holy ground,
céad mile failte, there's saints and there's scholars to see.
Oh, oh, the holy ground,
faraway hills ain't as green as they once used to be.
It's Easter again, and we cannot forget
our brothers and sisters and all that was said.
So practise your pipes, stand proud in the wet,
for the eyes of the world are upon you.
God in his mercy has given us men
to lead us to peace, but they can't bring an end
to the profits that pay off the lease on the land,
we still send them over the water.
Seventeen years, Kelly is a man,
who stands on the street with a gun in his hand.
He's protecting the pipers that play in the band,
while the enemy waits with an army.
Oh, oh, the holy ground,
céad mile failte, there's saints and there's scholars to see.
Oh, oh, the holy ground,
faraway hills ain't as green as they once used to be.
Dia le hÉireann, suckle the empire,
dia le hÉireann, suffer the loss
of the green and the blue while the media feeds
on the blood and the pain and the hatred.
Father walks home on a colourless night,
and the organisation has blinded his sight,
His wife and his kids are sleeping tonight,
in the arms of sweet Jesus and Mary.
Oh, oh, the holy ground,
céad mile failte, there's saints and there's scholars to see.
Oh, oh, the holy ground,
faraway hills ain't as green as they once used to be.
Oh, oh, the holy ground,
céad mile failte, there's saints and there's scholars to see.
Oh, oh, the holy ground,
faraway hills ain't as green as they once used to be.
