The Desecrated Curragh Of Kildare

By Patrick Tunney

There are mountains in Mayo,
Verdant glens in Aherlow,
Broad and fertile meads in Limerick and in Clare,
The most dismal place of all,
From Cape Clear to Donegal,
Is the desecrated Curragh of Kildare.
God bless the fighting men of Érin,
God rest the heroes of Sixteen,
Who faced the firing squad,
For their country and their God,
Whilst they hoisted high the orange, white and green.
Oh, the heartless Saxon Huns,
With their tanks and long range guns,
Were parading “Irish rebels” on the square,
Giving orders vile and mean,
Chiding my Dark Rosaleen,
On the desecrated Curragh of Kildare.
There were many valiant men,
In that steel surrounded den,
From each county of the land, we still revere,
For the green, the white and gold,
Their endurance is untold,
On the desecrated Curragh of Kildare.
In the holy month of May,
Castle orders come each day,
To suppress the hearts of fearless heroes there,
But the spirits grew more strong,
Of that patriotic throng,
On the desecrated Curragh of Kildare.
It surpasses me in song,
To sing bays of every wrong,
How the battle on to victory was mann’d,
How they dared the foreign foes,
Not one secret they’d disclose,
Whilst encompassed by the belots of our land.
From the camp by night and day,
Rounded forth the I.R.A.
For the wrath of English might did not care,
No, those men would never yield,
On the mountain, slope of field,
On the desecrated Curragh of Kildare.