Oh the empire is finished no foreign lands to seize 
So the greedy eyes of England are looking towards the 
seas 
Two hundred miles from Donegal, there's a place that's 
called Rockall 
And the groping hands of Whitehall are grabbing at its 
walls 

Oh rock on Rockall, you'll never fall to Britain's 
greedy hands 
Or you'll meet the same resistance that you did in many 
lands 
May the seagulls rise and pluck your eyes and the water 
crush your shell, 
And the natural gas will burn your ass and blow you all 
to hell. 

For this rock is part of Ireland, 'cos it' s written in 
folklore 
That Fionn MacCumhaill took a sod of grass and he threw 
it to the fore, 
Then he tossed a pebble across the sea, where ever it 
did fall, 
For the sod became the Isle of Man and the pebble's 
called Rockall. 

Now the seas will not be silent, while Britannia grabs 
the waves 
And remember that the Irish will no longer be your 
slaves, 
And remember that Britannia, well, - she rules the 
waves no more 
So keep your hands off Rockall - it's Irish to the 
core.