In Bodenstown churchyard, there is a green grave,
And wildly around it the winter winds rave,
Smaller shelter I ween are the ruined walls there,
When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare.

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

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

I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread,
Of a band who came into the home of the dead,
They carried no corpse, and they carried no stone,
And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe Tone.

My heart overflowed as I grasped his old hand,
I blessed him and blessed every one of his band,
"Sweet, sweet tis to find that such faith can remain,
In the cause and the man so long vanquished and slain."

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