THEY have hanged Roger Casement to the tolling <br />of a bell, <br />Ochone, och, ochone, ochone! <br />And their Smiths, and their Murrays, and their Cecils say it's well, <br />Ochone, och, ochone, ochone! <br />But there are outcast peoples to lift that <br />spirit high, <br />Flayed men and breastless women who laboured <br />fearfully, <br />And they will lift him, lift him, for the eyes <br />of God to see, <br />And it's well, after all, Roger Casement! <br /> <br />They've ta'en his strangled body from the gallows to the pit, <br />Ochone, och, ochone, ochone! <br />And the flame that eats into it, the quicklime, brought to it, <br />Ochone, och, ochone, ochone! <br />To waste that noble stature, the grave and brightening face, <br />In which courtesy and kindliness had eminence of place, <br />But they they'll die to dust which the wind will take a-pace, <br />While 'twas yours to die to fire, Roger Casement!<br /><br />Padraic Colum<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/roger-casement-2/
