At_Last

Oh, my own, my Babylon A pestilent crop of silence sewn. We are naught but carrion If - stilled - we carry on at home. Home? Is this that place, that we so called? Where our children should be playing? Am I but one to be appalled As Ulster Auxie troops are straying? Where's our cattle? Where's their fields? Evicted to such barren rocks, That nothing but pained hunger yields To us, the livestock England mocks. I'm Tom Barry. I've come home. I'm here to ease your pain. We'll weed this field so overgrown I stood with pride and bayonet. Now they'd have me truckle down And put my very soul in debt? They will hang to pay the bill For this heart that they would sell. It's my crop that they now till And my heaven rot to hell. Yet, I have heard in Skibbereen Does my grovel please you sire? I could learn to bend much lower. Do your floggers ever tire? Should my praise be spoken slower? More I've heard in Skibbereen I yield through station that you bear Impressed by clothing that you wear. I bow to powder guns of powdered heirs, Frozen stiff by icy glares. And plant our crop again. As a soldier for the crown

38