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.
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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.
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“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.”
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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.
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