Have you ever walked the lonesome hills. And heard the curlews cry. Or seen the raven black as night. Upon a windswept sky. To walk the purple heather. And hear the westwind cry. To know that's where the rapparee must die. Since Cromwell pushed us westward. To live our lowly lives. There's some of us have deemed to fight. From Tipperary mountains high. Noble men with wills of iron. Who are not afraid to die. Who'll fight with gaelic honour held on high. A curse upon you Oliver Cromwell. You who raped our Motherland. I hope you're rotting down in hell. For the horrors that you sent. 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 deeds are legends 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 of dear old Ireland. That will forge an iron will. As long as there are gallant men. Like young Ned of the hill. A curse upon you Oliver Cromwell. You who raped our Motherland. I hope you're rotting down in hell. For the horrors that you sent. To our misfortunate forefathers. Whom you robbed of their birthright. "To hell or Connaught" may you burn in hell tonight.