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 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.
WB Yeats
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When they are shut up by Fionn on a sea-girt rock, without chance of escape.
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(Goll speaks)
The end is come; upon this narrow rock
To-morrow I must die;
Wife of the ruddy cheeks and hair of flame,
Leave me to-night and fly.
Seek out the camp of Fionn and of his men
Upon the westward side;
Take there, in time to come, another mate.
Here I abide.
(Goll's wife replies)
Which way, O Goll, is my way, and thou perished?
Alas! few friends have I!
Small praise that woman
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Splendid in your eyes may be the impetuous champions
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More brilliant yet was the return
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Irish War News
THE IRISH REPUBLIC
Vol. 1. No. 1
DUBLIN, TUESDAY, APRIL 25, 19I6.
One Penny
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