(September 1913)
What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till,
And add the halfpence to the pence,
And prayer to shivering prayer, until,
You've dried the marrow from the bone,
For men were born to pray and save,
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
Tis with O’Leary in the grave.

If they were of a different kind,,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray,
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
Tis with O'Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread,
The grey wing upon every tide,
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
Tis with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were,
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, "Some woman’s yellow hair
Has maddened every mother’s son"
They weighed so lightly what they gave,
But let them be they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.

(The Call Of Erin)
[Chorus]
She is calling, calling, calling in the wind and o'er the tide,
We her children hear her voices, call us ever to her side,
She is calling, calling, calling in the storm and in the gale,
We her children hear her voices, as we homeward safely sail.

[Verse]
With the engine neath us throbbing and the wind upon our stern,
Little reck we of the distances that divides us now from Erin
For we hear her voices calling, sweeping past us on the West
Calling home to her the children, she once nourished on her breast.

[Chorus]
She is calling, calling, calling in the wind and o'er the tide,
We her children hear her voices, call us ever to her side,
She is calling, calling, calling in the storm and in the gale,
We her children hear her voices, as we homeward safely sail.

[Verse]
Oh, ye waters bear us onward and ye winds your task fulfil,
Till our Irish eyes will feast on Irish vales and Irish hills,
Till we tread our Irish cities, see their glory and their shame,
And our eyes like skies o'er Erin, through their smiles shed tears of pain.

[Chorus]
She is calling, calling, calling in the wind and o'er the tide,
We her children hear her voices, call us ever to her side,
She is calling, calling, calling in the storm and in the gale,
We her children hear her voices, as we homeward safely sail.

[Verse]
Glorious is the land were leaving and its pride shall grow through years
And the land that calls us homewards but can share with us her tears
Yet our heart her call obeying, heedless of the wealth men crave
Turneth home to share her sorrow where she weeps beside the wave.

[Chorus]
She is calling, calling, calling in the wind and o'er the tide,
We her children hear her voices, call us ever to her side,
She is calling, calling, calling in the storm and in the gale,
We her children hear her voices, as we homeward safely sail.