Come Irishmen, I pray attend and listen to these words I tell
For I sing a lay from a bygone day for the brave young lads we all knew well
Young lads who died that freedom’s light might shine so bright across the land
For no braver men has Ireland seen but O’Hara, Hughes, McCreesh and Sands.

Young Irishmen in Ulster born, deprived of freedom, work and home
Oppressed by ruthless races, laws that drive men down beneath the yoke
And when the bloodhound comes at night to terror strike across the land
With their tanks and guns and poor men’s sons, O’Hara, Hughes, McCreesh and Sands.

And then the hell of an H-block cell, where tyrants strive to break men’s wills
And boots and bars leave lifelong scars, these brave men’s spirits ne’er did yield
The words of Christ then came to mind, though he’d give up his life for his fellow man
And the volunteers without dread or fear were O’Hara, Hughes, McCreesh and Sands.

For three-score days, these men they lay under Margaret Thatcher’s tyranny
And British Churchmen came to say that no clergyman their souls could free
But far and wide with tears and pride, their story was told in distant lands
So your voices raise, we will sing in praise of O’Hara, Hughes, McCreesh and Sands.

Now brave men die and slick men lie and weak men turn their heads away
But short is the hour of those in power who truth and the rights of man betray
But the fight will go on and we’ll not be done while man is unfree in this fair land
And in freedom’s days we will sing in praise of O’Hara, Hughes, McCreesh and Sands.

--Mick Moloney