Song | September 1913 |
Artist | The Waterboys |
Album | An Appointment with Mr Yeats |
Download | Image LRC TXT |
作词 : W.B. Yeats | |
Scott-Wickham-Yeats | |
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. | |
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. | |
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. | |
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. | |
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. | |
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. | |
Yet could we turn the years again | |
And we call those exiles as they were | |
In all their loneliness and pain | |
You'd cry : 'Some woman's yellow hair ..' | |
'Has maddened every mother's son' | |
They weighed so lightly what they gave, what they gave | |
But let them be, they're dead and gone | |
They're with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave. | |
But let them be, they're dead and gone | |
They're with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave. | |
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone | |
It's with O'Leary in the grave, in the grave | |
In the grave, in the grave, in the grave, in the grave, in the grave. | |
(In the grave, in the grave) | |
(In the grave, in the grave) | |
(In the grave, in the grave) | |
(In the grave, in the grave) |
zuo ci : W. B. Yeats | |
ScottWickhamYeats | |
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. | |
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. | |
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. | |
For whom the hangman' s rope was spun | |
And what, God help us, could they save, could they save nbsp? | |
Romantic Ireland' s dead and gone | |
It' s with O' Leary in the grave, in the grave. | |
Was it for this the wild geese spread nbsp? | |
The grey wing upon every tide | |
For this that all that blood was shed | |
For this Fitzgerald died. | |
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. | |
Yet could we turn the years again | |
And we call those exiles as they were | |
In all their loneliness and pain | |
You' d cry nbsp: ' Some woman' s yellow hair ..' | |
' Has maddened every mother' s son' | |
They weighed so lightly what they gave, what they gave | |
But let them be, they' re dead and gone | |
They' re with O' Leary in the grave, in the grave. | |
But let them be, they' re dead and gone | |
They' re with O' Leary in the grave, in the grave. | |
Romantic Ireland' s dead and gone | |
It' s with O' Leary in the grave, in the grave | |
In the grave, in the grave, in the grave, in the grave, in the grave. | |
In the grave, in the grave | |
In the grave, in the grave | |
In the grave, in the grave | |
In the grave, in the grave |
zuò cí : W. B. Yeats | |
ScottWickhamYeats | |
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. | |
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. | |
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. | |
For whom the hangman' s rope was spun | |
And what, God help us, could they save, could they save nbsp? | |
Romantic Ireland' s dead and gone | |
It' s with O' Leary in the grave, in the grave. | |
Was it for this the wild geese spread nbsp? | |
The grey wing upon every tide | |
For this that all that blood was shed | |
For this Fitzgerald died. | |
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. | |
Yet could we turn the years again | |
And we call those exiles as they were | |
In all their loneliness and pain | |
You' d cry nbsp: ' Some woman' s yellow hair ..' | |
' Has maddened every mother' s son' | |
They weighed so lightly what they gave, what they gave | |
But let them be, they' re dead and gone | |
They' re with O' Leary in the grave, in the grave. | |
But let them be, they' re dead and gone | |
They' re with O' Leary in the grave, in the grave. | |
Romantic Ireland' s dead and gone | |
It' s with O' Leary in the grave, in the grave | |
In the grave, in the grave, in the grave, in the grave, in the grave. | |
In the grave, in the grave | |
In the grave, in the grave | |
In the grave, in the grave | |
In the grave, in the grave |