IN the chill grey summer dawn-light We pass through the empty streets; The rattling wheels are all silent; No friend his fellow greets. Here and there, at the corners, A man in a great-coat stands; A bayonet hangs by his side, and A rifle is in his hands. This is a conquered city; It speaks of war not peace; And that's one of the English soldiers The English call 'police.' You see, at the present moment That noble country of mine Is boiling with indignation At the memory of a 'crime.' In a path of the Phoenix Park where The children romped and ran, An Irish Ruffian met his doom, And an English Gentleman. For a hundred and over a hundred Years on the country side Men and women and children Have slaved and starved and died, That those who slaved and starved them Might spend their earnings then, And the Irish Ruffians have a 'good time,' And the English Gentlemen. For a hundred and over a hundred Years, that Christian land Has read its Bible and looked at all this, And lifted nor foot nor hand. But still at the present moment This noble country of mine Is boiling with indignation At the memory of this 'crime.' For the Irish Ruffians (they tell me, And it looks as if 'twere true) And the English Gentlemen are so scarce, We must wildly avenge these two. In the chill grey summer dawn-light We pass through the empty streets; The rattling wheels are all silent; No friend his fellow greets. Here and there at the corners, A man in a great-coat stands; A bayonet hangs by his side, and A rifle is in his hands. This is a conquered city; It speaks of war not peace; And that's one of the English soldiers The English call 'police.'