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)Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
