The empire is finished no foreign lands to seize
And 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 England 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
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
Now the seas will not be silent, while Britannia rules the waves
And remember that the Irish will no longer be your slaves
Remember to Britannia, well, — you rule the waves no more
So keep your hands off Rockall — it’s Irish to the core
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
Oh rock on Rockall, you’ll never fall