September 1913

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've dried the marrow from the bone

For men were born to pray and save, pray and save

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone

It's with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind

Those 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, could they

save?

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone

It's with O'Leary in the grave, 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 Fitzgerald died.

And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone

All that delirium of the brave of the brave

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone

It's with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again

And we 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, what they gave

But let them be, they're dead and gone

They're with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave.

But let them be, they're dead and gone

They're with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave.

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone

It's with O'Leary 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, in the grave)

(In the grave, in the grave)