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Famine Ship, The

Adrian Fox
Like a funeral cortege in Dublin Maynooth and Mullingar, The Famine ship came sailing Through Longford and Castlebar. It anchored just off Clew Bay At the foot of the pilgrim hill, Disturbing the red marrow soil A plough in a furrowed drill. The sculptured bones are flowers From the spuds of our blighted past Dead but not forgotten In the hull of Erins mast. Like a poppy in a wilderness A single tear upon the soil The souls of a million dead Flow through this mortal coil. The artists indentations scarred Like wounds on Irelands cries Melting from a candles prayer In the tear ducts of our eyes. The sculptured bones are flowers From the spuds of our blighted past, Dead but not forgotten In the hull of Erins mast. We have no pangs of hunger now And no wish to leave our land But deep down within our hearts Are the bones revealed in sand. We are they�re living souls Layered flesh upon the bone Nourished on Irelands suffering Our bellies will never groan. The sculptured bones are flowers From the spuds of our blighted past Dead but not forgotten In the hull of Erins mast. This page has been viewed 1012 times

Like a funeral cortege in Dublin
Maynooth and Mullingar,
The Famine ship came sailing
Through Longford and Castlebar.
It anchored just off Clew Bay
At the foot of the pilgrim hill,
Disturbing the red marrow soil
A plough in a furrowed drill.

The sculptured bones are flowers
From the spuds of our blighted past
Dead but not forgotten
In the hull of Erins mast.

Like a poppy in a wilderness
A single tear upon the soil
The souls of a million dead
Flow through this mortal coil.
The artists indentations scarred
Like wounds on Irelands cries
Melting from a candles prayer
In the tear ducts of our eyes.

The sculptured bones are flowers
From the spuds of our blighted past,
Dead but not forgotten
In the hull of Erins mast.

We have no pangs of hunger now
And no wish to leave our land
But deep down within our hearts
Are the bones revealed in sand.
We are they�re living souls
Layered flesh upon the bone
Nourished on Irelands suffering
Our bellies will never groan.

The sculptured bones are flowers
From the spuds of our blighted past
Dead but not forgotten
In the hull of Erins mast.

This page has been viewed 1012 times

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Time is now: 13th December 2010 - 08:39 PM

Licensed to: The Celtic Lyrics Collection