Óchón An Gorta Mór

Lament of the Great Famine
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Irish

English

The fine potatoes
A yellow blight is on them
And our with the hunger
It is not long that we will be alive
We are lost forever
And underneath the sod will be the people of Mayo

Chorus (after each verse):
Alas, alas, alas
Woe, time of the poor life
Alas, alas, alas
Woe, the Great Famine

A woman is up in Britain
Without an ear for our people
And no one sees our tears but the Lady of Paradise
We are sick with illness
Without anything to eat
And our food-vessels and flax are gone over the sea

The people are broken
Pained and scattered to the wind
And our children are discarded on the side of the road
Our land is not divided
It is not long since it has been harvested
Nothing but the long wild grass is growing over us

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