The Cottiers
(Penni McClaren Walker) - about the Irish potato famine.

Oh the Cottiers and their sons, fathers, mothers, wives and daughters
Are walking to the shore, there's nothing left on land
And the ones they left behind, with legs too weak to carry,
Are dying in their thousands for want of England's hand.

And where are the owners, whose backs we all bent?
With nothing to barter, so can't pay our rent
Lost our living, lost our land, our faith in fellow man
Watch the ragged Cottier band walk to shore.

Turn to see our houses burn, turn to see the embers die,
Everything we lived for, everything we owned
Echoes of our families still float across the hillside
This blight has left us wanting through no fault of our own
And where are the owners, their torches and flames?
You can lock all your doors but we know all your names
As we leave our blackened fields, Death is baying at our heels
Watch the ragged Cottier band walk to shore.

And the Cottiers and their sons, fathers, mothers, wives
and daughters
Are walking to the shore, there's nothing left on land
And the ones they left behind with legs too weak to carry
Are dying in their thousands for want of England's hand
And where are the owners, their torches and flames?
You can lock all your doors, but we know all your names
As we leave our blackened fields, Death is baying at our heels
Watch the ragged Cottier band walk to shore

Hear the politicians' promises and wait for their resolving
But the silos are still empty, you ignore our dying pleas
And they wrote off twenty million for the slaves across the water
And we got fifty thousand for all of Ireland's needs
And where are the owners, their heads bowed in shame?
You don't hear our voices, you don't know our names
When you've nothing in your belly you've no stomach for a fight
Watch the ragged Cottier band walk to shore

And the Cottiers and their sons, fathers, mothers. wives and daughters
Are walking to the shore, there's nothing left on land
And the ones they left behind, with legs too weak to carry
Are dying in their thousands for want of England's hand
And where are the owners, their heads bowed in shame?
They don't hear our voices, they don't know our names
When you've nothing in your belly, you've no stomach for a fight
Watch the ragged Cottier band walk to shore.