| What need you, being come to sense, |
| But fumble in a greasy till |
| And add the halfpence to the pence |
| And prayer to shivering prayer, until |
| You have dried the marrow from the bone; |
| For men were born to
pray and save: |
| Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, |
| It’s with O’Leary in the grave. |
|
|
|
|
| Yet they were of a
different kind, |
| The names that stilled your childish play, |
| They have gone about the world like wind, |
| But
little time had they to pray |
| For whom the hangman’s rope was spun, |
| And what, God help us, could they
save? |
| Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, |
| It’s with O’Leary in the grave. |
|
|
|
|
| Was it for this the wild geese
spread |
| The grey wing upon every tide; |
| For this that all that blood was shed, |
| For this Edward Fitzgerald
died, |
| And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, |
| All that delirium of the brave? |
| Romantic Ireland’s dead and
gone, |
| It’s with O’Leary in the grave. |
|
|
|
|
| Yet could we turn the years again, |
| And call those exiles as they
were |
| In all their loneliness and pain, |
| You’d cry, ‘Some woman’s yellow hair |
| Has maddened every mother’s
son’: |
| They weighed so lightly what they gave. |
| But let them be, they’re dead and gone, |
| They’re with
O’Leary in the grave. |
