Reply to September 1913
With Church and Bank in hates way,
Both in Ireland, One is decay,
Maybe Yeats words will melt away,
Maybe we will dance once again,
Merry, healthy, cheerful men,
These are my words, this my borrowed pen,
Romantic Ireland, lead by such men,
With no fear, and opinion aside,
Free from the tears, man and woman has cried,
Lets ride the global tide,
And stand as one, side by side,
At home, not where the Wild Geese hide,
Older than Emmet, Fitzgerald and Tone,
Where McCool, and Cuchulainn did Roam,
But we are not those fighting men,
Battling the bottle, the drinking den,
Face to Face with all but truth,
Yet in our hearts, melancholy for youth,
When future waits, and yet, for no man,
When women watch to see who can,
And who by God, in our hearts decide,
To stay ourselves, or to confide,
And loose what we can barley see,
And loose then, what makes the sea, the sea.
And each crazy, each in our minds wild,
Fearing fear, and knowing it true,
That freedom is a mass of pence,
A foreign home behind a fence,
And dreary words, whispering away,
The reason we could never stay,
For my words like time, tortured by a tide,
That never let truth alone and free,
Yet truth alone, can never hide,
It cant run, stronger than the sea,
Dreary, dismal, and such is the way,
That makes me wonder should I stay.
