by William Butler 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 have dried the marrow from the bone; | 5 |
For men were born to pray and save: | |
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, | |
It’s with O’Leary in the grave. | |
Yet they were of a different kind | |
The names that stilled your childish play, | 10 |
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: | |
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, | 15 |
It’s with O’Leary 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 Edward Fitzgerald died, | 20 |
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, | |
All that delirium of the brave; | |
Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, | |
It’s with O’Leary in the grave. | |
Yet could we turn the years again, | 25 |
And 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, | 30 |
But let them be, they’re dead and gone, | |
They’re with O’Leary in the grave. |
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