The grey dawn had crept o'er the stillness of morning.
The dewdrops had glistened like icicles breath. The note of
the bugle had sounded its warning,
A young Irish soldier lay sentenced to death.
No cold-blooded murder had stained
his pure conscience,
He called as a witness his Maker on high,
He'd simply been fighting for Ireland's lost freedom,
and tried he lay sentenced to die.
Then leave him away on the hillside,
Along with the brave and the bold. Inscribe his name on a scroll of fame,
letters of purest gold.
My conscience will never convict me,
He said with his last dying breath,
And may God bless
the cause of our freedom.
For which I lay sentenced to death.
He thought of his good broken-hearted old mother, He thought of his colleen so dear to his heart. The cords of affection
he scarcely could smother,
Well knowing how soon from them both he must part. He cared not to die though his heart was
'Twas simple remembrance of those he loved well, His Bible he pressed to his heart as a token,
cheered his soul, in that prison's cold cell.
To the old barrack square they marched the young hero,
The bandage he tore from his eyes in disdain.
You may think
I'm afraid of a crime-sodden Nero.
I'd die for my country again and again.
I blame not my comrades for doing their duty,
straight at my heart, were the last words he said. Exposing his breast to the point of the rifles,
The smoke cleared away,
the young hero lay dead.