In Bodenstown churchyard, there lie a green grave,
And wildly around it the winter winds rave,
Small shelter I weened are the ruined walls there,
As the storm rolled in from the plains of Kildare.

Once I lay on the sod, that lies over Wolfe Tone,
And thought how he perished in prison alone,
His friends unavenged and his country unfreed,
"Oh, bitter," I ween, "Is the patriot's mead."

For in him the heart of a woman combined,
With a heroic life and a governing mind,
A martyr for Ireland, his grave has no stone,
His name seldom mentioned, and his virtues unknown.

In Bodenstown churchyard there lies a green grave,
And widely around it the winter winds rave,
Far better they suit him, the ruin and gloom,
Till Ireland, a nation, can build him a tomb.