Scott-Wickham-Yeats

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