They took the title from his name,
That paltry gift of Britain's hand,
No soul or laurel neath the flame,
For him today in every land.

They stood him on a gallows tree,
With eyes blindfolded from the light,
Nor saw down all those year to be,
His soul, a soul of truth and light.

They hanged him high in Pentonville,
Uncoffined there his ashes lie,
A mound of dust that may not thrill,
To sun or shade or sea or sky.

But somewhere far beyond our kin,
O'er awful vistas yet unrolled,
That dust shall spring to fighting men,
As sprang the dragon's teeth of old.

They murdered him in Pentonville,
While howling mobs profaned the air,
Like wolves who only dare to kill,
When the whole pack is gathered there.

But others of his country men,
Melt into dust, for him who cried,
"I give my life for Ireland then,
God take soul" before he died.

God took his soul, God heard his cry,
God gauged his reckoning, yea and said,
"Above the farthest reach of sky,
Casement's immortal coronet."

God ranged his crying of sacrifice,
His life twas all he had to give,
But theirs whose blood has paid our price,
And died that Ireland's soul shall live.