| Opening Line | Song |
|---|
| 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] | |
| O, father dear I often hear you speak of Erin's Isle, her lofty scenes, her valleys green, her mountains rude and wild | |
| We were sitting on the wall upon a Sunday to watch the girls go by | |
| I've been a [Title] for many's the year, and I spent all me money on whiskey and beer | |
| 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 | |
| The [Title] to the war is gone, In the ranks of death ye will find him | |
| Over In Killarney, many years a go, me Mother sang a song to me in tones so sweet and low | |
| I was born on a Dublin street where the royal drums did beat and the loving English feet walked all over us | |
| Oh Paddy, dear, and did you hear the news that's going round, the shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground. | |
| 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 | |
| | Opening Line | Song |
|---|
| Oh, [Title], the pipes, the pipes are calling, from glen to glen, and down the mountain side | |
| Oh, Mary, this London's a wonderful sight, with people all working by day and by night. | |
| A great crowd had gathered outside of Kilmainham, with their heads all uncovered, they knelt on the ground | |
| In Dublin's fair city, Where the girls are so pretty, I first set my eyes on sweet [Title] | |
| 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 | |
| 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? | |
| There's a collen fair as May, for a year and for a day I have sought by every way her heart to gain | |
| 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. | |
| At [Title] as the sun was setting, o'er the bright May meadows of Shelmalier | |
| 'Twas a cold an' dreary (frosty) mornin' in December, an' all of me money it was spent | |
|
TJL
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