In Dublin's fair city there's sorrow to-day For the flower of her manhood who fell in the fray; Her youths and her maidens, her joy and her pride Have gone down in battle, in war's raging tide.
They came forth to fight for a cause that was grand, When freedom and liberty called to their land; In the ardor of youth, in the spring of the year, They came without falter, they fought without fear.
Near the noon of that day on that April morn, Their tramp shook the street where young Emmet was born; They waved high their banner, white, orange and green, And it waved over freemen, the men of '16!
And high o'er the Liffey it waved in the wind, Over hearts that were brave and the noblest of minds; And they fought as of old, and they held the old town Till their banner, unsullied, in darkness went down.
In that Easter Week, dear old Dublin was freed, By the blood of her sons from Swords to the Sea, Oh, proudly again does she raise her old head When the nations lament and salute her bold dead!
O Irish Republic! O dream of our dreams! Resplendent in vision thy bright beauty gleams! Though fallen and crushed 'neath thy enemy's heel, Thy glory and beauty shine burnished like steel!
Not in vain was their death who for Ireland died, And their deeds in our hearts in gold are inscribed; The freeing of Ireland to us is their trust, And we can if we will it, we can if we must!
In Dublin's fair city there's sorrow to-day, For the flower of her manhood who fell in the fray; But in hearts that are true there is nothing of gloom, And Erin regenerate shall rise from the tomb!
The rising inspired not only verse, but music. One of the most popular songs in Ireland to-day is "Easter Week"; the words by Francis Grenade, the music by Joseph Mary Crofts:
Long, long the years thy chains have bound thee, Eire, Bitter the tears that sparkled in thy eyes, Sudden the cry of freedom thrills the city, Brave hearts beat high, thy children round thee rise; 'Mid shot and shell, where flaming cannon thunder, From out that hell we hear their battle-cry: "Sinn Fein Amain!" Thy sons salute thee, Eire! See! Freedom's dawn is flushing in the skies!
Dark Rosaleen, thy trampled flag, we swear it, Shall lift its sheen triumphant in the sun! Thy galling chain, our gallant sword shall save her, Ended thy pain and weeping, dearest one! In plaintive strains our hearts shall mourn our heroes, Till once again thy banner waveth free, Close to thy breast, then guard them, gentle Eire, There shall they rest till time shall cease to be!