Sing of the O’Rahilly, Do
not deny his right; Sing
a “the” before his name; Allow
that he, despite All
those learned historians, Established
it for good; He
wrote out that word himself, He
christened himself with blood. How goes the weather? Sing
of the O’Rahilly That
had such little sense He
told Pearse and Connolly He’d
gone to great expense Keeping
all the Kerry men Out
of that crazy fight; That
he might be there himself Had
travelled half the night. How goes the weather? “Am
I such a craven that I
should not get the word But
for what some travelling man Had
heard I had not heard?” Then
on pearse and Connolly He
fixed a bitter look: “Because
I helped to wind the clock I
come to hear it strike.” How goes the weather? What
remains to sing about But
of the death he met Stretched
under a doorway Somewhere
off Henry Street; They
that found him found upon The
door above his head “Here
died the O’Rahilly. R.I.P.”
writ in blood. How goes the weather? |
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