colm o’donnell | Song of the Isles

Another emigrant song - Erin grá mo chroí, sung here by Colm O’Donnell. You may be familiar with the version made popular by Cherish the Ladies.

Erin Grá Mo Chroí

At the setting of the sun, when my long day’s work was done
I rambled down the seashore for a walk
And I being all alone I sat down upon a stone
For to gaze upon the scenes of New York

Chorus:
Oh Erin grá mo chroí, you’re the dear old land to me
You’re the fairest that my eyes have ever seen
And if ever I go home, it’s from you I never will roam
You’re my own native land so far away

It broke my mother’s heart, the day that I did part
Will I never see my dear ones anymore?
Not until my bones are laid in the cold and silent grave
In my own native land so far away

On a cold, cold winter’s night, with the turf fire burning bright
And the snowflakes falling on a winter’s day,
When St. Patrick’s Day comes and the shamrocks will be worn
In the dear little isle so far away

Chorus

And yet another “banks” song. Back to Ireland for this one sung by Colm O`Donnell.

The Banks of the Moy

One day as I went on my ramble, from Swinford to sweet Ballylee
I met with a maid as I rambled and her name it was Mary McGrath
And she said “For the sake of old Ireland, Michael Davitt, my brave Irish boy
He is now in the prison of Portland, far from the lovely sweet banks of the Moy”

I quickly approached this fair maiden, asked her what was the cause of her woe
And what was the reason for misery, that forced her from home for to go
And she sighed ” For the rights of old Ireland , Michael Davitt my brave Irish boy
He is now in the prison of Portland, far from the lovely sweet banks of the Moy”

Don’t talk of your sweet sixty-seven, we had brave men and true men also
There was young Peter Carney, God rest him, he died in Killarney also
He was drilled by my darling Mick Davitt, in the valleys and plains of Fermoy
And that’s why he’s a prisoner in Portland, far from the lovely sweet banks of the Moy

And now to conclude and to finish, I hope that the day will soon come
When those cruel landlords and bailiffs from the isle of Saint Patrick must run
We will unfurl our green and gold banners and we’ll raise them for Ireland on high
And we will drink to our brave Michael Davitt, from the lovely sweet banks of the Moy.

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