Do you remember the fear, being
young and on the beer.
Crossing over again, for work and a
Blighty, the enemy that welcomed us,
not with open arms, too much
harm done by men with masks and
guns. In our name?
Shame on the fuckers.
Never in my name! To kill, to maim.
Never in my name.
But still the fear. In us and in them.
The accent hidden on bus and train
ridden into Soho or Liverpool or
To Irish enclaves. Keep your head low
say fuck all
until you fall in with company you know.
The fear. Christ the fear
of Birmingham, Guilford,
Canary Wharf, Waterloo, Hyde Park.
Not in my name, never in my name
but the fear just the same.
Being Irish, fresh of the boat.
Are you a terrorist Mick?
A bomber? A murderer Paddy?
A sick fuck who blows babies
to kingdom come? The fear.
In their eyes and in mine
The fear of not knowing,
growing and spreading.
Plague on the men on machines
and shovels, husbands, fathers,
lovers and jokers but all workers
trying to make a wage and fill in
in the story of life.
Its over now they say,
for those who left and those who
Families grown in towns
along the moors and dales
English kids with Mick names
and folks with strange Irish ways.
Generations gifted to a foreign
Hand in hand they walk
with no notion of the fear
that brought them there.
But their Ma and Da knew it well,
the lousy hell of fear.
The guilt of being Irish here.
– Dave Kavanagh