I've been out and gathered
With their heads all uncovered,
they kneel on the ground.
Far inside that grim prison,
lay a young Irish soldier.
His life for his country about to lay down
like a true son of Ireland
The firing party, a privileged face
The black fly lay hoisted,
There was many a sad heart
When they murdered James Connolly,
God's poor son, you England,
you cruel hearted monster
Your deeds, they were shame
There are no flowers bloomin',
but the shamrock is blowin'
On the grave of James Connolly,
Many years have rolled by
since the Irish Rebellion,
When the guns of Britannia,
they stood shoulder to shoulder
And the blood from their bodies
rolled down Sackville's street.
The four hordes of Dublin,
But above all the death rose
was the voice of James Connolly,