The Proclamation had met with silence,
he must have known the fight was lost,
But, Connolly, faithful to the Cause,
Was accepting of its cost.
They took the Green, The inns of Court,
the Post on Sackville Street
De Valera stood at Bolandʼ s mill
the place where five roads meet.
Their commander, Pearse, a scholar,
Apportioned his menʼ s lives,
To garrison each strong point
Till the British would arrive.
Their tactics were pure suicide-
They could not hope to stand,
But their strategy was brilliant
Meant to rouse a sleeping land.
Sure to die of a snipers bullet-
Or a British firing squad
These unabashed Republicans
Held out against long odds..
Bloodied by the Rebel guns,
The foe paid dear for ground
The general post office was in flames
as their gunboats shelled our town.
The week crawled past and Dublin burned
The post Office glowed White hot
Pearse watched his troop dwindle and fade.
Faint from shell and shock..
They surrendered to be crucified
In Imperial British fashion
And by dying saved their country.
Their deaths brought her resurrection.
The British with their firing squad
Could ready, aim and fire.
The Brotherhood by dying
Could persuade, convince, inspire
Upon the graves of these patriot men
Was the seed of a Nation sown,
their struggle at the post office
Still captured in itsʼ stone.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 8:20 PM UTC
The Proclamation had met with silence,
he must have known the fight was lost,
But, Connolly, faithful to the Cause,
Was accepting of its cost.
They took the Green, The inns of Court,
the Post on Sackville Street
De Valera stood at Bolandʼ s mill
the place where five roads meet.
Their commander, Pearse, a scholar,
Apportioned his menʼ s lives,
To garrison each strong point
Till the British would arrive.
Their tactics were pure suicide-
They could not hope to stand,
But their strategy was brilliant
Meant to rouse a sleeping land.
Sure to die of a snipers bullet-
Or a British firing squad
These unabashed Republicans
Held out against long odds..
Bloodied by the Rebel guns,
The foe paid dear for ground
The general post office was in flames
as their gunboats shelled our town.
The week crawled past and Dublin burned
The post Office glowed White hot
Pearse watched his troop dwindle and fade.
Faint from shell and shock..
They surrendered to be crucified
In Imperial British fashion
And by dying saved their country.
Their deaths brought her resurrection.
The British with their firing squad
Could ready, aim and fire.
The Brotherhood by dying
Could persuade, convince, inspire
Upon the graves of these patriot men
Was the seed of a Nation sown,
their struggle at the post office
Still captured in itsʼ stone.
Yes, Yeats' poem was infinitely better- he was there. I last stood in the General post office as a small boy in 1960. My Father pointed out to me the bullet marks in the stone columns This may be the poem I was born to write. It took me days to compose when most of my compositions take about 30-40 minutes
Request permission to use this poem