Within Christy Moore's discography you'll find several tunes that speak of the downtrodden Irish migrant in England.
There was no work to be had in Ireland, not for decades, and those who didn't brave the long voyage to America or Australia went to England.
They were the navvies who built the railroads, the cleaners and the brickies and the go-fers on the building sites. Even though they did the grunt work, the back-breaking labor, they were generally reviled and the average Brit wished they'd all go home and take their IRA troubles with them.
What a difference a Celtic Tiger makes.
Nick Griffin of the British National Party is ready to slam shut the doors to England, to put an end to all immigration and sent the foreigners back from whence they came.
Except for the Irish.
The Irish, it seems, are part of the fabric of Great Britain. The two islands are inextricably woven together, with bonds forged over centuries.
And then there's all the Irish diaspora, settled in England but still feeling a bit Irish. The descendants of the navvies and the brickies and the cleaners are British citizens with a right to vote and Mr. Griffin knows a voting block when he sees one.
So, go home you Polish plumber or Afghan refugee. You're not needed in modern day England.
There's enough Irish around to take up the slack anyway. The Celtic Tiger's dead and the young people are emigrating again.