Letra
Ver letra con acordes
: 4564xx
[Intro]
[Verse 1]
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
[Chorus 1]
You ve dried the marrow from the bone
For men were born to pray and save, pray and save
Romantic Ireland s dead and gone
It s with O Leary in the grave, in the grave
[Verse 2]
Yet they were of a different kind
Those names that stilled your childish play
They have gone about the world like wind
But little time had they to pray
[Chorus 2]
For whom the hangman s rope was spun
And what, God help us, could they save, could they save?
Romantic Ireland s dead and gone
It s with O Leary in the grave, in the grave
[Verse 3]
Was it for this the wild geese spread?
The grey wing upon every tide
For this that all that blood was shed
For this Fitzgerald died
[Chorus 3]
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone
All that delirium of the brave of the brave
Romantic Ireland s dead and gone
It s with O Leary in the grave, in the grave
[Verse 4]
Yet could we turn the years again
And we call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain
You d cry:
[Intro]
[Verse 1]
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
[Chorus 1]
You ve dried the marrow from the bone
For men were born to pray and save, pray and save
Romantic Ireland s dead and gone
It s with O Leary in the grave, in the grave
[Verse 2]
Yet they were of a different kind
Those names that stilled your childish play
They have gone about the world like wind
But little time had they to pray
[Chorus 2]
For whom the hangman s rope was spun
And what, God help us, could they save, could they save?
Romantic Ireland s dead and gone
It s with O Leary in the grave, in the grave
[Verse 3]
Was it for this the wild geese spread?
The grey wing upon every tide
For this that all that blood was shed
For this Fitzgerald died
[Chorus 3]
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone
All that delirium of the brave of the brave
Romantic Ireland s dead and gone
It s with O Leary in the grave, in the grave
[Verse 4]
Yet could we turn the years again
And we call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain
You d cry: