The Tyrants Let You Die

Padraic Pearse, oh poet,

The songs of a fool you did not sing.

Hung on your gallows,

The tyrants let you die.

But what for your song?

Were you hungry for violence?

 

For the love of Republican Government

You sung your heroes-songs

Of mother Erin.

And the Banshee keened,

Oh did the shade keen.

 

We, the land where your ye fellowmen fled

We stand berated by kings and princes

Who do now claim to have royal blood.

Are they Bourbon or Hapsburg

Perhaps they are, but America,

Mother Maria,

She to whom Erin’s Exodus fled,

We have no King.

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