'Twas during The Troubles,
when my uncle did,
made haste with his lads,
and in Belfast hid.

Their votes they cast,
and still the British stayed.
So they took up arms,
and like pianos they played.

Making bombs in the basement,
very carefully they planned.
They laid them at the entrance of Parliment,
let those imperialists be ******.

Ooh ahh! Up the R.A.!
They shouted in the night.
Tiocfaidh ár lá!
They gave the Brits a good fight.

Thirty years later,
in a prison my uncle still lays.
He writes me letters,
He still believes in brighter days.

When the brits are out,
He'll go home.
Tend to his flock,
this Irishman will never bow to that throne.