It was in the year eighteen forty and five,
A great hunger came o'er the land,
And it was the neglect of the rulers to be,
That no crops could the soil command,
Yet the farmer he tilled,
He toiled and he sowed,
And he planted with his strong hands,
A great hunger came o'er the land.

The moon it shone bright,
O'er the late autumn skies,
Twas the finest, the harvest moon,
Yet it was not the sight of joy to be seen,
For then again, too soon,
Crop failure had turned the sweetness all sour,
In the hearts of all Ireland,
A great hunger came o'er the land.

Now the men, they grow weak,
And the women are pale,
And the children are dying now,
The cold winter months will soon pass us by,
Without hope in the early spring,
And the people will cry with a hungry plea,
Without hope of a helping hand,
A great hunger came o'er the land.

The birds, they are singing way out of tune,
As the cart pulls the donkey along,
The crops, they have failed us again in this year,
Oh, then tell me what caused this wrong,
Was it the curse of a witch,
That caused this bad deed?
Or the work of a devil's hand?
A great hunger came o'er the land.

Not a devil or witch had a hand in this deed,
Of this I assure you now,
But the cuckoo of men,
This crippling foe,
Though it's little that you might have,
He's exploited the work of the labouring man,
And while his belly expands,
A great hunger came o'er the land.