September 1913

What need you being come to senseBut fumble in a greasy tillAnd add the halfpence to the penceAnd prayer to shivering prayer until.You've dried the marrow from the boneFor men were born to pray and save, pray and saveRomantic Ireland's dead and goneIt's with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave.Yet they were of a different kindThose names that stilled your childish playThey have gone about the world like windBut little time had they to pray.For whom the hangman's rope was spunAnd what, God help us, could they save, could they save?Romantic Ireland's dead and goneIt's with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave.Was it for this the wild geese spread?The grey wing upon every tideFor this that all that blood was shedFor this Fitzgerald died.And Robert Emmet and Wolfe ToneAll that delirium of the brave of the braveRomantic Ireland's dead and goneIt's with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave.Yet could we turn the years againAnd we call those exiles as they wereIn all their loneliness and painYou'd cry: 'Some woman's yellow hair..'Has maddened every mother's sonThey weighed so lightly what they gave, what they gaveBut let them be, they're dead and goneThey're with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave.But let them be, they're dead and goneThey're with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave.Romantic Ireland's dead and goneIt's with O'Leary in the grave, in the graveIn the grave, in the grave, in the grave, in the grave, in the grave.(In the grave, in the grave)(In the grave, in the grave)(In the grave, in the grave)(In the grave, in the grave)