| ‘O words are lightly spoken,’ |
| Said Pearse to Connolly, |
| ‘Maybe a breath of politic words |
| Has withered our
Rose Tree; |
| Or maybe but a wind that blows |
| Across the bitter sea.’ |
|
|
|
|
| ‘It needs to be but watered,’ |
| James
Connolly replied, |
| ‘To make the green come out again |
| And spread on every side, |
| And shake the blossom
from the bud |
| To be the garden’s pride.’ |
|
|
|
|
| ‘But where can we draw water,’ |
| Said Pearse to Connolly, |
| ‘When
all the wells are parched away? |
| O plain as plain can be |
| There’s nothing but our own red blood |
| Can
make a right Rose Tree.’ |