Have you ever walked a lonesome hills
And heard the Curlews cry
Or seen the raven black as night
upon the windswept sky
To walk the purple heather
And hear the west wind cry
To know there is the rapparee must die

Since Cromwell pushed us westward
To live our lowly lives
There some of us have deem to fight
From Tipperary mountains high
Noble man with wills of iron
Who are not afraid of die
Who'll fight with Gaelic honour held on high

A curse upon you Oliver Cromwell
You who rapped our motherland
I hope you're rutting down in hell
For the horrors that you send
To our misfortunate forefathers
Whom you robbed of their birthright
To hell or Connaught may you burn in hell tonight

Of one such man I'd like to speak
A rapparee by name and deed
His family dispossessed and slaughtered
They put a price upon his head
His name is known in song and story
His deed's are legend still
And murdered for blood money
Was young Ned of the Hill

You have robbed our homes and fortunes
Even drove us from our land
You tried to break our spirit
But you'll never understand
The love for dear old Ireland
That will forge an iron will
As long as there are gallant men
Like young Ned of the hill
Belfast Food

[1471]