You’ve probably heard it in a crowded pub, or maybe it randomly popped up on your TikTok feed during a viral trend. Come on out ye black and tans is one of those rare songs that manages to be a century-old historical artifact and a modern-day chart-topper all at once. It’s loud. It’s aggressive. It’s deeply, unapologetically political. But why does a song about the Irish War of Independence, written decades after the fighting stopped, still get people so riled up?
The answer isn't just about catchy melodies or folk tradition. It’s about a specific kind of defiance.
The Man Behind the Lyrics
Dominic Behan wrote the song in the 1920s—well, technically he wrote it in the 1950s, but it was set in the context of his childhood in Dublin. Behan wasn't just some casual songwriter; he was the brother of the famous playwright Brendan Behan and a staunch republican. When you listen to the lyrics, you aren't just hearing a history lesson. You're hearing the voice of a man who grew up in a tenement house on Russell Street, listening to his father, Stephen Behan, talk about the "Tan" era.
Most people assume the song was written in the heat of the 1920s. It wasn't. It’s a retrospective piece of art, which is why it feels so punchy and cinematic. It was meant to mock. Specifically, it was meant to mock the "loyalist" neighbors in Dublin who had served in the British Army during World War I but stayed quiet when the Irish Republican Army (IRA) took on the British crown.
Who were the Black and Tans, anyway?
History is messy. The Black and Tans weren't a formal army unit in the traditional sense. They were a force of temporary constables recruited to assist the Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) during the Irish War of Independence (1919–1921). Most were unemployed British veterans of the Great War.
The name came from their improvised uniforms. Because there weren't enough standard green RIC uniforms to go around, these recruits wore a mix of khaki British Army trousers and dark green (appearing black) RIC tunics. They looked like the Scarteen Hunt, a famous pack of foxhounds in Limerick known as the "Black and Tans."
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They weren't just soldiers; they were a counter-insurgency force. And they were brutal. They are remembered for reprisals against the civilian population—burning the center of Cork city, the sacking of Balbriggan, and numerous extrajudicial killings. To this day, the term "Black and Tan" remains one of the most potent insults in the Irish lexicon.
The Viral Resurgence
In 2020, something weird happened. The song hit number one on the iTunes charts in Ireland and the UK. This wasn't a mistake. It happened because the Irish government at the time suggested a state commemoration for the Royal Irish Constabulary and the Dublin Metropolitan Police.
People were furious.
To many, honoring the RIC felt like honoring the Black and Tans themselves. The song became a digital protest. The Wolfe Tones, the most famous group to cover the track, suddenly found themselves competing with modern pop stars for the top spot. It proved that Irish folk music isn't a museum piece. It’s a living, breathing tool for political expression.
Why the Song is Actually a "Diss Track"
If you look at the lyrics, the song is basically a 1950s version of a diss track. It challenges "the Black and Tans" to come out and fight "man to man," while simultaneously mocking their performance in previous wars.
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- Slanders the Zulu: The lyrics mention how the British "slandered" the Zulus at Isandlwana and the Arabs in the Middle East.
- The Dublin Tenements: It highlights the divide between the working-class Dubliners and the British administration.
- The Mockery of Retreat: It ridicules the idea of the British Empire "running away" from the IRA.
It’s not a polite song. It’s not meant to be. It’s designed to be sung at the top of your lungs after a few pints of Guinness. It’s visceral.
Musicality and The Wolfe Tones
While many artists have covered it—from the Dubliners to various punk bands—The Wolfe Tones own this song. Brian Warfield, the band's primary songwriter and leader, has defended the song for decades. He argues that it's about pride, not hate.
The structure is simple: a rousing chorus, four verses, and a driving beat. This simplicity is its greatest strength. You don't need to be a musicologist to sing along. You just need to know how to shout "Come on out!"
The Modern Controversy
Of course, not everyone loves it. In Northern Ireland, the song is often viewed through the lens of the Troubles. For some, it’s a celebration of republicanism that feels threatening. For others, it’s a historical anthem that has nothing to do with modern violence.
The English media often reacts with confusion when the song charts. They see it as an "anti-English" anthem, but historians generally argue it’s "anti-imperialist." There is a difference. The song targets the British establishment and the specific paramilitary forces sent to Ireland, not the English people as a whole.
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What You Should Know Before Singing It
Context is everything. If you’re in a tourist bar in Temple Bar, you’ll hear it every night. If you’re in a more politically sensitive area, the vibe might change.
- It’s about the 1920s, not the 1970s. Knowing the difference between the "Old IRA" and the "Provisional IRA" is key to understanding why some people feel comfortable singing this but not other rebel songs.
- It’s a Dublin song. Despite being a national anthem of sorts, its heart is in the North Side of Dublin.
- The irony is deep. The song mocks the "Tans" for having medals from the Great War, yet many of the IRA men who fought them were also veterans of that same war.
The enduring legacy of Come on out ye black and tans is its ability to adapt. It has moved from the tenements of Dublin to the folk clubs of the 60s, through the dark days of the Troubles, and into the era of streaming and social media. It’s a song that refuses to die because the history it describes is still being debated.
Moving Beyond the Chorus
To truly appreciate the song, you have to look at the other music of that era. Songs like "The Foggy Dew" or "The Wind That Shakes the Barley" offer a more poetic, somber look at Irish history. "Black and Tans" is the rowdy outlier. It’s the adrenaline shot of the Irish songbook.
Next time you hear it, listen to the verses. Don't just wait for the chorus. Listen to the references to the "Great Flaherty" and the "sheeogues." There’s a wealth of Dublin folklore buried in those lines that usually gets drowned out by the drums.
If you want to understand the modern Irish psyche, you can't ignore this song. You don't have to agree with its politics to recognize its power as a piece of cultural storytelling. It’s a reminder that music is often the only way the "losing" side gets to write the history books. Or, in this case, the way the side that felt silenced finally got to scream back.
Practical Steps for History Buffs
If this song has piqued your interest in Irish history, don't stop at the Spotify playlist.
- Visit Kilmainham Gaol: If you're ever in Dublin, this is the site where the leaders of the 1916 Rising were executed. It provides the grim reality that birthed songs like this.
- Read Dominic Behan: His autobiography, Teems of Times and Happy Returns, gives a gritty, hilarious look at the Dublin that produced these lyrics.
- Compare the Versions: Listen to the Dubliners' version for a more traditional folk feel, then switch to The Wolfe Tones for the "stadium" version. Notice how the tempo changes the meaning.
- Research the 1920s: Look into the "burning of Cork" to see exactly why the Black and Tans were so reviled. It makes the lyrics feel a lot less like hyperbole and a lot more like a witness statement.
The song is a gateway. Use it to actually learn the names and faces of the people who lived through the "Tan war." History isn't just a chorus; it's the quiet moments in between.