Listen all ye that hold communion
With Southern Confederates who are bold,
And I will tell you of some men for the Union
Who in northern ranks were enrolled;
They came to Missouri in their glory
And thought at their might we'd be dismayed;
But they soon had a different story
When they met Kelly's Irish Brigade.
When they met with the Irish Brigade me boys
When they met with the Irish Brigade
Didn't those cowardly Lincolnites tremble
When they met with the Irish Brigade.
They have called us rebels and traitors,
But themselves have thrown off that name of late.
They were called it by the English invaders
At home in the eve of ninety eight
The name to us is not a new one though,
Tis one that shall never degrade
And it's true-hearted Irishmen
In the ranks of Kelly's Irish Brigade.
Well they dare not call us invaders,
'Tis but state rights and liberty we ask;
And Missouri, we will ever defend her,
No matter how hard may be the task.
Then let the Irishmen assemble,
Let the voice of Missouri be obeyed;
And the northern fanatics will tremble
When again they meet Kelly's Irish Brigade.
Music: David Kincaid
This is a song of the Irish Confederates of Missouri.
Oh, not now for songs of a nation's wrongs,
not the groans of starving labor;
Let the rifle ring and the bullet sing
to the clash of the flashing sabre!
There are Irish ranks on the tented banks
of Columbia's guarded ocean;
And an iron clank from flank to flank
tells of armed men in motion.
And frank souls there clear true and bare
To all, as the steel beside them,
Can love or hate withe the strength of fate,
Till the grave of the valiant hide them.
Each seems to be mailed Ard Righ,
whose sword's avenging glory
Must light the fight and smite for right,
Like Brian's in olden story.
With pale affright and panic flight
Shall dastard Yankees base and hollow,
Hear a Celtic race, from their battle place,
Charge to the shout of "Faugh-a-ballaugh!"
By the sould above, by the land we love
Her tears bleeding patience
The sledge is wrought that shall smash to naught
The brazen liar of nations.
The Irish green shall again be seen
as our Irish fathers bore it,
A burning wind from the South behind,
and the Yankee rout before it!
O'Neil's red hand shall purge the land-
Rain a fire on men and cattle,
Till the Lincoln snakes in their own cold lakes
Plunge from the blaze of battle.
The knaves that rest on Columbia's breast,
and the voice of true men stifle;
we'll exorcise from the rescued prize-
Our talisman, the rifle;
For a tyrant's life a bowie knife!-
Of Union knot dissolvers,
The best we ken are stalwart men,
Columbiads and revolvers!
Whoe'er shall march by triumphal arch
Whoe'er may swell the slaughter,
Our drums shall roll from the Capitol
O'er Potomac's fateful water!
Rise, bleeding ghosts, to the Lord of Hosts
For judgement final and solemn;
Your fanatic horde to the edge of the sword
Is doomed line, square, and column!
Music By: David Kincaid