September 1913 (Acordes)

v. 1

  
                                    
                                    
                                    
                                    
                                    
                                    
 G#dim : 4564xx





[Intro]

D  Bm

D  Bm



[Verse 1]

D                           Bm

What need you being come to sense

D                      Bm

But fumble in a greasy till

D                            Bm

And add the halfpence to the pence

D                                Bm

And prayer to shivering prayer until



[Chorus 1]

G#dim                            G

You've dried the marrow from the bone

                              D              Bm

For men were born to pray and save, pray and save

G#dim                       G

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone

                         D             Bm

It's with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave



[Verse 2]

D                            Bm

Yet they were of a different kind

D                                      Bm

Those names that stilled your childish play

D                                   Bm

They have gone about the world like wind

D                           Bm

But little time had they to pray



[Chorus 2]

G#dim                           G

For whom the hangman's rope was spun

                                  D                 Bm

And what, God help us, could they save, could they save?

G#dim                       G

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone

                         D             Bm

It's with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave



[Verse 3]



D                              Bm

Was it for this the wild geese spread?

D                        Bm

The grey wing upon every tide

D                                Bm

For this that all that blood was shed

D                   Bm

For this Fitzgerald died



[Chorus 3]

G#dim                      G

And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone

                         D            Bm

All that delirium of the brave of the brave

G#dim                       G

Romantic Ireland's dead and gone

                         D             Bm

It's with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave



[Verse 4]

D                           Bm

Yet could we turn the years again

D                                Bm

And we call those exiles as they were

D                           Bm

In all their loneliness and pain

D                               Bm

You'd cry: