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,
She to whom Erin’s Exodus fled,
We have no King.