Category Archives: Ulster

Dear Old Donegal by Steve Graham

It seems like only yesterday
I sailed from out of Cork.
A wanderer from old Erin’s isle,
I landed in New York.
There wasn’t a soul to greet me there,
A stranger on your shore,
But Irish luck was with me here,
And riches came galore.
And now that I’m going back again
To dear old Erin’s isle,
My friends will meet me on the pier
And greet me with a smile.
Their faces, sure, I’ve almost forgot,
I’ve been so long away,
But me mother will introduce them all
And this to me will say


Shake hands with your Uncle Mike, me boy,
And here’s your sister, Kate.
And sure there’s the girl you used to swing
Down by the garden gate.
Shake hands with all your neighbours,
And kiss the colleens all
You’re as welcome as the flowers in May
To dear old Donegal.

They’ll line the roads for miles and miles
They’ll come from near and far.
And they’ll give a party when I go home,
With Irish jauntin’ cars.
The spirits’ll flow and we’ll be gay,
We’ll fill your hearts with joy.
And the piper will play an Irish reel
To greet the Yankee boy.
We’ll dance and sing the whole night long,
Such fun as never was seen.
The lads’ll be decked in corduroy,
The colleens wearin’ green.
There’ll be thousands there that I never saw,
I’ve been so long away,
But me mother will introduce them all
And this to me will say:

Shake hands with your Uncle Mike, me boy,
And here’s your sister, Kate.
And sure there’s the girl you used to swing
Down by the garden gate.
Shake hands with all your neighbours,
And kiss the colleens all
You’re as welcome as the flowers in May
To dear old Donegal.

Meet Branigan, Fannigan, Milligan, Gilligan,
Duffy, McCuffy, Malachy, Mahone,
Rafferty, Lafferty, Donnelly, Connelly,
Dooley, O’Hooley, Muldowney, Malone,
Madigan, Cadigan, Lanihan, Flanihan,
Fagan, O’Hagan, O’Hoolihan, Flynn,
Shanihan, Manihan, Fogarty, Hogarty,
Kelly, O’Kelly, McGuinness, McGuinn.

Shake hands with your Uncle Mike, me boy,
And here’s your sister, Kate.
And sure there’s the girl you used to swing
Down by the garden gate.
Shake hands with all your neighbours,
And kiss the colleens all
You’re as welcome as the flowers in May
To dear old Donegal.

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Danny Boy or Londonderry Air

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer’s gone, and all the flowers are dying
’tis you, ’tis you must go and I must bide.


But come you back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow
’tis I’ll be there in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You’ll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an “Ave” there for me.

And I shall hear, tho’ soft you tread above me
And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
If you’ll not fail to tell me that you love me
I simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

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The Bard of Armagh

Oh, listen to the lay of a poor Irish harper,
And scorn not the strains of his old withered hands,
But remember those fingers they once could move sharper
In raising the merry strains of his dear native land;
It was long before the shamrock, dear isle, lovely emblem,
Was crushed in its beauty by the Saxon’s lion paw,
And all the pretty colleens around me would gather,
Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.


How I love to muse on the days of my boyhood,
Though fourscore and three years have flew by them,
It’s kings sweet reflection that every young joy,
For the merry hearted boys make the best of old men.
At a fair or a wake I could twist my shillelagh,
And trip through a dance with my brogues tied with straw,
There are all the pretty maidens around me would gather,
Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh.

In truth I have wandered this wide world over,
Yet Ireland’s my home and a dwelling for me,
And, oh, let the turf that my old bones shall cover
Be cut from the land that is trod by the free;
And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms doth embrace,
And lulls me to sleep with old Erin-go-bragh!
By the side of my Kathleen, my dear pride, oh, place me,
Then forget Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh.

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Inishowen by Charles Gavan Duffy

God bless the gray mountains of dark Donegal,
God bless the Royal Aileach, the pride of them all;
For she sits evermore like a Queen on her throne,
And smiles on the valleys of Green Inishowen.
And fair are the valleys of Green Inishowen
And hardly the fishers that call them their own –
A race that nor traitor nor coward have known
Enjoy the fair valleys of Green Inishowen.


O! simple and bold are the bosoms they bear,
Like the hills that with silence and nature they share;
For our God who hath planted their home near his own,
Breathed his spirit abroad upon fair Inishowen.
Then praise to our Father for wild Inishowen,
Where fiercely forever the surges are thrown –
Now weather nor fortune a tempest hath blown
Could shake the strong bosoms of brave Inishowen.

See the bountiful Couldah careering along –
A type of their manhood so stately and strong –
On the weary forever its tide is bestown,
So they share with the stranger in fair Inishowen.
God guard the kind homesteads of fair Inishowen,
Which manhood and virtue have chosen for their own;
Not long shall that nation in slavery grown,
That reads the tall peasants of fair Inishowen.

Lie that oak of St. Bride which nor Devil nor Dane
Nor Saxon nor Dutchman could rend from her fane,
They have clung by the cred and the cause of their own
That rears the tall peasants of fair Inishowen.
Then shout for the glories of old Inishowen,
The stronghold that foemen have never o’erthrown –
The soul and the spirit, the blood and the bone,
That guard the green valleys of true Inishowen.

Nor purer of old was the tongue of the Gael,
When the charging ‘aboo’ made the foreigner quail;
Than it gladdens the stranger in welcome’s soft tone,
In the home-loving cabins of kind Inishowen.
O! flourish, ye homesteads of kind Inishowen,
Where seeds of a people’s redemption are sown;
Right soon shall the fruit of that sowing have grown,
To bless the kind homesteads of green Inishowen.

When they tell us the tale of a spell-stricken band
All entranced, with their bridles and broadswords in hand,
Who await but the word to give Erin her own,
Through the midnight of danger in true Inishowen.
Hurrah for the Spaemen of proud Inishowen!
Long live the wild Seers of proud Inishowen!
May Mary, our mother be deaf to their moan
Who love not the promise of proud Inishowen.

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