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,
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, 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, grey wing on every tide
For this that all the blood was shed?
For this Fitzgerald died?
And Robert Emmett 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 recall 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
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
lyrics: Mike Scott
painting: John O’Leary by John Butler Yeats
