| Opening Line | Song |
|---|
| When boyhood's fire was in my blood I read of ancient freemen, for Greece and Rome who bravely stood, three hundred men and three men | |
| Oh, Mary, this London's a wonderful sight, with people all working by day and by night. | |
| Oh, [Title], the pipes, the pipes are calling, from glen to glen, and down the mountain side | |
| O, father dear I often hear you speak of Erin's Isle, her lofty scenes, her valleys green, her mountains rude and wild | |
| When winter was brawling, o'er high hills and mountains And dark were the clouds o'er the deep rolling sea, I spied a wee lass as the daylight was dawning | |
| Over In Killarney, many years a go, me Mother sang a song to me in tones so sweet and low | |
| A great crowd had gathered outside of Kilmainham, with their heads all uncovered, they knelt on the ground | |
| As I went down to Dublin city, at the hour of twelve at night, who should I see but the [Title], washing her feet by candlelight. | |
| As we gather in the chapel here in old Kilmainham Jail, I think about these past few weeks, oh will they say we've failed? | |
| In Dublin's fair city, Where the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet [Title] | |
| | Opening Line | Song |
|---|
| There's a collen fair as May, for a year and for a day I have sought by every way her heart to gain | |
| There's a place just outside Lisburn, it's a place that's known to few, where a group of Irish rebels are held by Faulkner's crew | |
| If you ever go across the sea to Ireland, then maybe, at the closing of your day, you can sit and watch the moon rise over Claddagh and see the sun go down on [Title] | |
| At [Title] as the sun was setting, o'er the bright May meadows of Shelmalier | |
| I've been a [Title] for many's the year, and I spent all me money on whiskey and beer | |
| Oh Paddy, dear, and did you hear the news that's going round, the shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground. | |
| We were sitting on the wall upon a Sunday to watch the girls go by | |
| The [Title] to the war is gone, In the ranks of death ye will find him | |
| 'Twas a cold an' dreary (frosty) mornin' in December, an' all of me money it was spent | |
| I was born on a Dublin street where the royal drums did beat and the loving English feet walked all over us | |
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