It hung above the kitchen fire, it's barrel long and brown,
And one day with a boy's desire, I climbed to took it down,
My father's eyes with anger flashed, he cried, "What have you done?"
"I wish you'd left it where it was, that's my old Fenian gun."

I fondled it with love and pride, I looked it o'er and o'er,
I placed it on my shoulder and I marched across the floor,
My father's anguish softened and he shared my boyish fun,
"Ah, well," he said, "Tis in your breed like that old Fenian gun."

"I remember '67 well, when lads like you and me,
All thought we'd strike another blow to set old Ireland free,
But broken were our golden hopes, I was long months on the run,
But it did good work for Ireland then that brown old Fenian gun."

"I was down then in Kilmallock, twas the hottest fight of all,
And you see he burned his arm there's the mark still of a ball,
I hope the young lads growing now will hold the ground we've won,
And not disgrace the cause in which I held that Fenian gun."

I placed it on my shoulder and I heard my father sigh,
I knew his thoughts were turning back on days now long gone by,
And then I vowed within my heart I'll be my father's son,
And if ever Ireland wants my aid I'll hold the Fenian gun.

That's years ago I've grown a man and I've weathered many a gale,
The last long years I've spent inside a gloomy English jail,
I've done my part I'll do it still until the fight is won,
When Ireland's free she'll bless the men who held the Fenian gun.