I think about these past few days, oh will they say we've failed

From our schooldays they have told us we must yearn for liberty

Yet all I want in this dark place is to have you here wlth me

Oh Grace just hold me in your arms and let this moment

linger, they take me out at dawn and I will die

With all my love I place this wedding ring upon your finger

There won't be time to share our love for we must say goodbye

Now I know it's hard for you my love to ever understand

the love I bear for these brave men, my love for this dear land

But when Padhraic called me to his side down in the GPO

I had to leave my own sick bed, to him I had to go

Now as the dawn is breaking, my heart is breaking too

On this May morn as I walk out my thoughts will be of you

And I'll write some words upon the wall so everyone wlll know

I love so much that I could see his blood upon the rose

With their heads uncovered they knelt on the ground.

From inside that grim prison lay a brave Irish soldier,

His life for his country about to lay down.

He went to his death like a true son of Ireland,

The firing party he bravely did face,

Then the order rang out: "Present Arms, Fire!"

James Connolly fell into a ready-made grave.

The black flag they hoisted the cruel deed was over,

Gone was the man who loved Ireland so well.

There was many a sad heart in Dublin that morning,

When they murdered James Connolly, the Irish Rebel!.

God's curse on you, England, you cruel-hearted monster

Your deeds they would shame all the devils in hell.

There are no flowers blooming but the shamrock is growing

On the grave of James Connolly, the Irish Rebel!.

Many years have rolled by since that Irish rebellion,

When the guns of Britannia they loudly did speak.

The bold I.R.A. they stood shoulder to shoulder,

And the blood from their bodies flowed down Sackville Street.

The Four Courts of Dublin the English bombarded,

The spirit of Freedom they tried hard to quell.

For above all the din rose the cry 'No Surrender,'

To a city fair rode I.

When Ireland's line of marching men

In squadrons passed me by.

No pipe did hum, no battle drum

Did sound its loud tattoo

But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell

Rang out in the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin town

They hung out a flag of war.

Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky

Than at Suvla or Sudel Bar.

And from the plains of Royal Meath

Strong men came hurrying through;

While Brittania's sons with their long-range guns

Sailed in from the foggy dew.

'Twas England bade our wild geese go

That small nations might be free.

Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves

On the fringe of the grey North Sea.

But had they died by Pearse's side

Or fought with Valera true,

Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep

'Neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

The bravest fell, and the requiem bell

Rang mournfully and clear

For those who died that Eastertide

In the springing of their years.

And the world did gaze in deep amaze

At those fearless men and true

Who bore the fight that freedom's light

At Resurrection time, some glint of rebel steel

Pierced deep my soul, so deep

That fifty years have not erased the thrill

The names of Pearse and Plunkett,

Clarke, MacDonagh, Connolly

Ceannt and Sean Mac Diarmada arouse,

Of freedom born in blood.

Wresting freedom from a tyrant’s hand

Had often been essayed on Ireland’s soil.

Essayed at cost, at bitter cost

By men of eager hearts and giant mind, yet still

Each century brought fourth The poets, princes of pen,

To thrill with their philosophy

A nation’s captive hearts.

No lust of blood inflamed the freedom verse

To turn the ploughshare to the sword;

They unlocked hearts, e'en timid hearts

To dreams undreamt of within captive breasts,

And set vast floods of liberty afloat

Upon a sea too long content

With anchored hopes,

And flotsam fears.

Who can recall an Emmet or a Tone,

A Mitchel or a Davitt or Devoy,

Without a glorious surging of the blood

And anticipation of emancipation

From the long-remembered wrongs

Upon a nation's rights?

Just tribute must be paid by

Freedmen to felon's heirs.

Half a century ago our resurrection came

Heralded by another name, the name of Pearse,

An Apollo with a quiver of words,

Music-tipped arrows to reach the very souls

Of those who longed and longed for freedom's balm;

Gentle leader of a quiet few

Who braved a tyrant's might

To make a bondman free.

Let me praise him who close by Rossa’s grave

Praised the virtue of a valiant man

From a heart and tongue pregnant then

With death-decision made for

Freedom's urgent birth;

A man whose spiritual eye could see the joy

Of a ladybird upon a stalk,

Or a rabbit in a field at play.

There were no deaths in Dublin on that

Easter day some fifty years ago-

Such music makers cannot die

As many mercenary soldiers do

With battles lost or won.

They have but set the music to a song

That ever holds us bound,

Yet leaves us ever free.

Like Pearse or Plunkett,

MacDonagh and Mac Diarmada

Ceantt and Clarke,

Of Eternal song,

Drowned in the harping of lays

More loud and long.

His deed was a single word,

Called out alone

In a night when no echo stirred

To laughter or moan.

But his songs new souls shall thrill,

The loud harps dumb,

And his deeds the echoes fill

I have met them at close of day

Coming with vivid faces

From counter or desk among grey

Eighteenth-century houses.

I have passed with a nod of the head

Or polite meaningless words,

Or have lingered awhile and said

Polite meaningless words,

And thought before I had done

Of a mocking tale or a gibe

To please a companion

Around the fire at the club,

Being certain that they and I

But lived where motley is worn:

All changed, changed utterly:

A terribly beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent

In ignorant good-will,

Her nights is argument

Until her voice grew shrill.

What voice more sweet than hers

When, young and beautiful,

She rode to harriers?

This man had kept a school

And rode our wingèd horse;

This other his helper and friend

Was coming into his force;

He might have won fame in the end,

So sensitive his nature seemed,

So daring and sweet his thought.

This other man I had dreamed

A drunken, vainglorious lout.

He had done most bitter wrong

To some who are near my heart,

Yet I number him in the song;

He, too, has resigned his part

In the casual comedy;

He, too, has been changed in his turn,

Transformed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone

Through summer and winter seem

Enchanted to a stone

To trouble the living stream.

The horse that comes from the road,

The rider, the birds that range

From cloud to tumbling cloud,

Minute by minute they change;

A shadow of cloud on the stream

Changes minute by minute;

A horse-hoof slides on the brim,

And a horse plashes within it;

The long-legged moor-hens dive,

And hens to moor-cocks call;

Minute to minute they live;

The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice

Can make a stone of the heart.

O when may it suffice?

That is Heaven's part, our part

To murmur name upon name,

As a mother names her child

When sleep at last has come

On limbs that had run wild.

What is it but nightfall?

No, no, not night but death;

Was it needless death after all?

For England may keep faith

For all that is done and said.

We know their dream; enough

And what if excess of love

Bewildered them till they died?

I write it out in a verse --

MacDonagh and MacBride

And Connolly and Pearse

Now and in time to be

Wherever green is worn,

Are changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.