| Young hearts born with grief
|
| Shall pay the penalty of truth
|
| A season of stolen youth
|
| Shall teach old hearts to break
|
| It feels like I’ve been here before
|
| Here to where the animals lay down to die
|
| So we stood alone on a distant store
|
| Our broken spirits in rags and tatters
|
| Nerve and muscle, heart and brains
|
| Lost to Ireland, lost in vain
|
| Pause and you can almost hear
|
| The sounds echo down through the ages
|
| The creak of the burial cart
|
| Here in humiliation and sorrow
|
| Not mixed with indignation
|
| One is driven to exclaim
|
| Oh god, that bread should be so dear
|
| And human flesh so cheap*
|
| Young hearts are born with such grief
|
| We have paid the penalty of truth
|
| A season of our stolen youth
|
| Shall teach our hearts to break |