1. AN GORTA MÓR (PART I)

The darkest hour, where fields reap blight
The endless hunger, and blackened skies
A land of rot, where children wither
And mother’s weep, a countless sorrow

Hearts grow faint
And hope decays
The failure of a God

The plough drags on the bones of the fallen,
The blood seeps to the soil of poison.
Scorned wretches of what used to be human,
Pale faces in a shroud of torment.

A vulgar curse, on blackened shores
A time for death, to claim what’s hers
Diseased and starved, a brewing corpse
Left for dead, on farms of ash

The stench of decay
Abandoning faith

Hunger spreads to the edge of the isle,
Disease rampant and the rations vile.
Walking corpses their souls are abandoned,
By a god that leaves children in famine.
The island rots while the people starve,
The crows feast on the Holocaust of celts.
Ashes fall on the hopeless soil,
Removing families from this mortal coil.


2. KNOCKDOE

Knockdoe!
The slaughter field
A bloodied sky
Where Gaels die

Upon the hill
The hill of axes
Armies stand
United clans

Gallowglass
Axe in hand
Charging forth
Through arrow’s rain

Armies clash
Hellish screams
Tearing flesh
Countless death

Now the cairns are stacked
High upon the hill
Now the land has changed
Gone the gaelic age

Now the old ways die
And gods fall the heel
Now the days turn grey
Gone the way of celts


3. CHILDREN OF LIR

Upon the lake
Under light of moon
The swans sing
Songs of great sorrow

Restless they wait
For the curse to end
Innocent
Condemned to exile

Cast out
On their own
With no place
To call home

Cursed hand
The witch had played
900 years
Doomed to wait

As the nights
Grow more cold
Still they roam
With hope they shiver

With human voice
They wail at night
Through lonely centuries
All friends have died

Discarded
Left to roam
The lonely lands
Year after year

Wandering
With no return
To the hall of gods
Til the bell is rung

And in the end
A new god comes
To the Celtic lands
And the old gods fall

Baptised
By a holy man
They return to form
Withered they die


4. CONNLA’S FATE

Connla, child of Cuchulain
Born to Aoife, of beauty and steel
Spawned from battle, his cruel fate awaits

From the land of Gods,
Connla made haste.
Down to Ulster,
Where his father awaits.

Cursed with gaesa, three which were laid
When his journey begins, never shall he return
No challenge shall be refused, to no man shall he give his true name

When connla refused
To give the king his name
Many warriors were sent
To force Connla’s hand

Cuchulain was called
To see to this young man
But still he refused
To give his true name

And so the spears were called
And mightily they clashed
But Connla gave way
And fell to his fate

So began
Cuchulain‘s great lament
He cursed Aoife’s name
And went to the waves

The Ulster men were called
To say their farewells
And Connla was laid to rest
Killed by his father’s hand


5. A DYING LAND

There is a fading light
Upon the valleys and rivers
A whisper of hope
A desperate plea of life

Beneath a falling sky
Upon great mountains of old
A soil of rot
And a land of blight

Cut down in the land we call home
Starved and left to die here alone
Hunger thrives in the absence of hope
Death waits upon these shores -
A dying land

There is an absence of life
And the gravestones grow
Farmers reap empty fields
And only the crows feast

Even kings rot on their thrones
And many sleep to never awake
Kingdoms fall to the will of dirt
Nature brings all to heel -
A dying land

This is our home
We die alone
The sun turns black
And the fields don’t grow -
A dying land


6. CELTIC SORROW

Never ends
The tales of loss
Always still
Death is near

Kingdoms grow
Then fall to dust
Sweeping snow
Beats on stone

And still it holds
The endless sorrow

I lie in wait
For the pain to end
I scour the fields
Where my kin lay dead

I watch the stars
And see them fade
I roam the forest
And speak with ghosts

How celts have suffered
And known no less
In the black of night
Even sirens cry

In the halls of kings
Our heroes rest
Upon shadowed lands
The old ones roam

And still it holds
The promise of death

And all they know
Celtic sorrow


7. AN GORTA MÓR (PART II)

Still it lingers, the stench of famine
And the sorrow of celts remains
A land in ruin, cut down from the blight
And the weight of guilt to have lived

Ashamed of life, devoid of hope
We walk alone on scattered bones
Our fallen kin, with stolen souls
Dead and nameless they lay

an Gorta Mór
Robbed of life
A great unrest
Buried by time

an Gorta Mór
A tainted land
A world turned black
In rotting fields

an Gorta Mòr
an Gorta Mòr