(Long Kesh)
There's a place just outside Lisburn,
It's a place that's known to few,
Where a group of Irish rebels,
Are held by Faulkner's crew,
They are forced to live in cages,
Like the inmates of Bellevue,
But the spirit of 1916,
Will always see them through.

The men in this vile place,
They come from far and near,
Some from the Derry Bogside,
And Omagh town so dear,
And some of them from Belfast,
From the Markets and the Bone,
From the narrow streets of Ardoyne,
And all around Tyrone.

On that black day in August,
When Faulkner showed his hand,
He thought that by internment,
He could break our gallant band,
But the boys from Ballymurphy,
How they showed the way that night,
And they taught those English soldiers,
How Irish men could fight.

Long Kesh has shown to everyone,
This system must be broke,
Ardoyne, the New Lodge and the Falls,
Will see the system choke,
No more the Special Powers Act,
Those fiends they will invoke,
And Long Kesh will be the U-Stone,
On which the system broke.

A word, now Irish people,
No matter where you are,
Just remember our brave rebels,
In Long Kesh this year,
And by civil disobedience,
Or any other way,
Let's make a stand until the day,
Each one of them are free.

(The Foggy Dew)
Well as down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I,
Ah, the armoured lines of marching men in squadrons they passed me by,
Well no pipe did hum, nor battle drum did sound its dread tattoo,
But the Angelus Bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out in the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin Town they hung out the flag of war,
It was better to die neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sud-El-Bar,
Aye, and from the plains of Royal Meath brave men came hurrying through,
While Britannia's Huns with their long range guns came in through the foggy dew.

Well the night fell black and the riflе crack made Perfidious Albion reel,
Neath thе leaden rain, seven tongues of hail, did shine o'er the lines of steel,
And by each shining blade a prayer was said, "That to Ireland her sons will be true",
And when morning broke, oh, the war flag shook out its fold in the foggy dew.

It was England who bade our wild geese go, that small nations they might be free,
But their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves on the fringe of the Great North Sea,
Ah, but had they died by Pearse's side or fought with the noble Cathal Brugha,
Ah, their names we would keep where the Fenians sleep, neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

Oh, the bravest they fell and the requiem bell rang mournfully loud and clear,
And for those who died that Eastertide in the springtime of the year,
And while the world did gaze, with deep amaze, at the stout hearted men, but few,
Who bore the fight that freedom's light would shine through the foggy dew.

And back through the glen sure I rode again, my heart with grief was sore,
For I parted with the gallant men that I'll never see see no more,
Ah, but to and fro in my dreams I'll go, I kneel and I pray for you,
For the slavery fled, oh, the rebel dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.