The last lord was left livin' in his manor house so grand The empire had forgotten him, and other strife they found He hadn't got a shillin' now to fill his little hand He hadn't got a maid or cook or Paddy to command The roof atop the west-wing fell, he had to lock the door The rats all chewed the wires so the lightbulbs lit no more Green mould climbed up the inside wall, green ivy out the front Each time he tried to shut the door, he did it with a grunt At the bottom room he lay awake, and struggled for a wink The wind blew in the chimney and the drippin' of a sink He feared the story of the ones who started on their hunt Inside his den he questioned then, "What do the Paddy's want?" The rats must all be Fenian now, it must be Irish rain That split in two the banner blue, protecting English claim The wind must be from Gráinne Mhaol blowing out her roar To tell the wealthy Saxon they're not welcome anymore No landlord here in Ireland is the song that I will sing Run them out or burn them out, whatever is your thing No time now for the wealthy ones who try to put us down Break the greedy structures built to keep the poor folk down This song it is an ancient one, I wish that I could say But greedy little landlords never really went away There's no need for protection or an army at their call All their friends and family are working in the Dáil