A tall ship is embarking
from Galloway Bay,
its great white wings stretching,
catching every breath of the wind.
Down in the dark,
down in the depths,
down in the bowels
of the old wooden ship,
poor women weep
for their children,
fearing it will be their end.
They are people of the dysphoria,
and will be scattered like chaff on the wind.
They are eager to leave this blighted land,
not caring where their journey will end.
They’re heading away
to a new distant home,
across the wide stormy sea,
and are willing to dare
a cold watery grave,
just for a chance to be free.
They are leaving behind,
their dear Irish homes,
leaving behind their old way of life.
leaving behind a landlord’s’ cruel hand,
and days haunted by hunger and strife.
They go by names like O’Malley,
O’Donnell, O’Neil and O’Rourke,
and they’ve come from the shantys of Kilkenny,
from the bloody streets of Dublin,
from the barren fields of County Cork.
Worry and fear etch
each worn tired face,
but they’ll set their roots deep,
if given half a chance,
and pray every-day for God’s grace.