|: On the 18th of November, just outside the town of Macroom, the Tans in their big Crossley tenders came roaring along to their doom :| |: But the boys of the column were waiting with hand grenades primed on the spot And the Irish Republican Army made shit of the whole mucking lot :| 't was on an August morning, all in the morning hours I went to take the warming air, all in the month of flowers And there I saw a maiden, and heard her mournful cry: Oh, what will mend my broken heart? I've lost my laughing boy! So strong, so wild, so brave he was, I'll mourn his loss too sore, when thinking that we'll hear the laugh or springing step no more I curse the time and set the loss my heart to crucify* that an Irish son with a rebel gun shot down my laughing boy! Oh, had he died by Pearse's side or in the G.P.O., killed by an English bullet from the rifle of the foe, or force-fed while Ashe lay dead in the dungeons of Mountjoy, I'd have cried with pride for the way he died, my own dear laughing boy. $ My pristine love, can ageless love do more than tell to you: "Go raibh mile maith agat!"** for all you tried to do? (***|:) For all you did and would have done my enemies to destroy* I'll prize your name and guard your fame, my own dear laughing boy (***:|) dal $egno al fine***
*Dichterische Freiheit der Wortumstellung. Normalerweise würde man "... to crucify my heart" und "... to destroy my enemies" sagen.
**Irisch für "Dankeschön".