You’ve probably heard it in a crowded pub, or maybe it popped up on a random Spotify playlist and got stuck in your head for three days. It starts with that defiant, rolling beat. Then comes the roar: "Come out ye Black and Tans, come out and fight me like a man!" It’s loud. It's aggressive. Honestly, it’s one of those rare folk songs that can still make people feel like they’re part of a revolution, even if they’re just sitting in traffic. But there is a lot more to Come Out Ye Black and Tans than just a catchy chorus or a reason to clink glasses.
Most people think it’s a song from the 1920s, written in the heat of the Irish War of Independence. It wasn’t. It was actually written by Dominic Behan in the 1960s. He was the brother of the famous playwright Brendan Behan, and he grew up in a household where Republicanism wasn’t just a political stance—it was the air they breathed.
The Real Story Behind the Lyrics
To get why this song hits so hard, you have to understand who the Black and Tans actually were. They weren't just "the British army." Following the 1916 Rising and the subsequent rise of the IRA, the Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) was falling apart. British authorities needed boots on the ground, fast. They recruited Great War veterans, men who had just spent years in the trenches and were, frankly, pretty desensitized to violence. Because there weren't enough standard RIC green uniforms to go around, these recruits wore a mix of dark police tunics and khaki military trousers.
The locals called them "Black and Tans" after a famous pack of foxhounds from Limerick. It stuck.
The song is specifically set in Dublin, mentions the "green lovely lanes of Killashandra," and calls out the "Great Zulu War" and the "Arab 16." This isn't just a list of random places. Dominic Behan was writing a scathing critique of the British Empire's global track record. He was pointing out the irony of soldiers winning medals in colonial wars across Africa and the Middle East, only to come home and struggle against a localized urban insurgency in a "slum" in Dublin.
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Why it keeps coming back to the top of the charts
In 2020, something weird happened. Come Out Ye Black and Tans hit number one on the iTunes charts in both Ireland and the UK. This wasn't because of a sudden surge in folk music appreciation. It was a protest. The Irish government had planned a state commemoration for the RIC—the very police force the Black and Tans were part of. People lost their minds. The backlash was so intense that the government had to cancel the event.
The Wolfe Tones, the band most famous for the definitive version of the track, suddenly found themselves trending in the 21st century.
It’s a song that thrives on friction. It’s used by Celtic FC fans in Glasgow to signal their identity. It’s been sampled in hip-hop tracks. It was even used in a bizarrely controversial advertising campaign for a UK food brand that clearly didn't do their historical homework. The song is basically a cultural lightning rod. Whenever tensions rise between Ireland and the UK—think Brexit or border disputes—this song starts climbing the charts again. It’s the ultimate "we haven't forgotten" anthem.
Misconceptions about the "Show your wife" line
There is a line that often gets misinterpreted: "Show your wife how you won medals down in Flanders." Some people hear this as a jab at the soldiers' bravery. It’s actually more nuanced. Behan was mocking the idea of "gallantry" in the context of the Irish struggle. He was suggesting that while these men were decorated for "heroism" in the First World War (Flanders), their behavior in Ireland—raiding homes, burning the center of Cork city, and terrorizing civilians—was anything but honorable.
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It is a deeply personal song, too. Behan's father, Stephen Behan, was a member of the IRA during the War of Independence. When the song mentions "my father and his brothers used to mock you," that isn't poetic license. It's a family memory.
The musicality of defiance
Musically, it’s a march. It’s designed to be sung by a group. If you listen to the version by The Wolfe Tones, you’ll notice it doesn't have the mournful, slow tempo of many Irish ballads like "The Fields of Athenry." It’s brisk. It’s arrogant. It mimics the bravado of the men it’s criticizing.
The song also serves as a history lesson on the cheap. It mentions:
- The "Great Zulu War" (Anglo-Zulu War of 1879)
- The "Arab 16" (Referencing the Arab Revolt and British involvement in the Middle East)
- Flanders (The killing fields of WWI)
By linking these events, Behan was trying to frame the Irish struggle for independence as part of a much larger, global anti-colonial movement. He wanted the listener to see Ireland not as a small island with a localized problem, but as one of many nations trying to break free from the same empire.
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Is it a "Hate Song"?
This is where the conversation gets tricky. Depending on who you ask, Come Out Ye Black and Tans is either a harmless bit of historical folk or a divisive sectarian anthem. In Northern Ireland, playing it in certain areas can be seen as a direct provocation. In the Republic, it's often viewed with a bit more detachment, more of a "rebel classic" than an active call to arms.
The nuance lies in the intent. If you’re singing it to celebrate the historical defeat of a specific paramilitary force known for war crimes (the Black and Tans were officially censured for their conduct by various international bodies at the time), that’s one thing. If it’s used to harass modern-day neighbors, that’s another.
Experts like Dr. Ruan O’Donnell, a historian at the University of Limerick, have noted that rebel music functions as a "living archive." These songs keep the oral tradition of Republicanism alive in a way that textbooks can't. They carry the emotion of the era.
Practical ways to engage with the history
If you actually want to understand the weight behind these lyrics, don't just stop at the song.
- Visit Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin. Standing in the breakers yard where the leaders of the 1916 Rising were executed provides the somber context that the song’s bravado often masks.
- Read "The Black and Tans" by Richard Bennett. It’s an older text, but it gives a gritty, unvarnished look at the recruitment and deployment of the force.
- Listen to different versions. Compare The Wolfe Tones' version with the more modern, darker rendition by Jinx Lennon or the live recordings by The Dubliners. Each tells a slightly different story through its tone.
- Research the burning of Cork. In December 1920, the Black and Tans and the Auxiliaries burned a huge portion of Cork’s city center. When you hear the song’s anger, remember that events like this are the "why" behind the lyrics.
The enduring power of Come Out Ye Black and Tans isn't just about the melody. It’s about the fact that it captures a very specific, very raw moment of Irish defiance. It’s a song about the "little guy" standing up to a global superpower. Whether you love it or find it uncomfortable, its place in the global songbook is permanent. It’s a piece of history that refuses to stay in the past.
Next Steps for the History Buff:
To truly understand the impact of the Black and Tans on the Irish psyche, look into the Battle of Kilmichael. It was a turning point in the war where an IRA flying column, led by Tom Barry, ambushed a patrol of Auxiliaries. This event is often cited as the moment the British realized that "holding" Ireland through force was becoming an impossible task. Reading Tom Barry's own account, Guerrilla Days in Ireland, provides the tactical reality that matches the defiance found in Dominic Behan’s lyrics.