Mike From Garryowen

When Erin called the brave and true to strike the tyrant down

And freedom’s voice in thunder flew through valley, camp, and town.

When our old flag of green and gold was to the breeze upthrown,

The first to step beneath its fold was Mike from Garryowen.

For Ireland and her holy cause his heart was all aglow,

And to the Saxon tyrant’s laws a firm unflinching foe.

In manners mild, yet fierce in fight, with muscle, blood and bone,

To strike a blow for Ireland’s right – brave Mike from Garryowen!

In ’48 by Meagher’s side he roamed an outlawed man,

Forced like the wolf his head to hide on the bleak old Slievenamon,

And hunted down by the Saxon sway from country, love, and home

With a heavy heart he sailed away, far, far from Garryowen.

And long he waited, watched, and prayed that once more he might see

The boys in battle line arrayed, the Sunburst floating free.

To see poor Erin’s exiles stand defiant, firm, alone!

To strike one blow for Motherland, and one for Garryowen!

And when O’Neill our banner raised on Limestone Ridge that day

Mike’s Irish blood with ardour blazed, impatient for the fray.

No slave was he to brook control nor bend to foreign throne.

A spotless Fenian, heart and soul, was Mike from Garryowen.

And when he formed in battle line dressed in his Irish green

Firm as the rugged mountain pine with bold defiant mien.

You’d think you saw Lord Edward there, brave Emmet, or Wolfe Tone,

His was the heart to do or dare – bold Mike from Garryowen!

By heaven, t’was worth a brave man’s life to see our columns tread

To see the green flag in the strife wave o’er the English red.

And when the battle cry went out with bold and fearless tone

The loudest cheer, the boldest shout, was Mike from Garryowen!

And on the scarlet hirelings came, to crush us in their might

Their rifles blazing fire and flame, their bayonets shining bright.

Fierce is the fight; at every stroke, a foe is overthrown!

As in the fire, and flame, and smoke dashed Mike from Garryowen!

I saw him stand among his foe, the bayonets flashing ‘round

I saw him in his death grip close, his life blood on the ground.

I saw him stand and gasp for breath, I heard his latest moan.

And Sarsfield died no braver death than Mike from Garryowen.

We wrapped him in his Irish green and laid him down to rest

Beside the fair Canadian stream, the shamrock on his breast

And brothers, comrades, ne’er forget, we’ve yet to claim our own,

And strike a blow for Ireland yet, like Mike from Garryowen.