THE STORY WITHOUT END
Before my time my kindred were
As felons in their land,
Because they claimed the liberty
That freemen understand.
Ere I was born in Dublin town
Men's hearts were still aflame;
They spoke of Allen and O'Brien,
And whispered Larkin's name.
When I slept on my mother's breast,
A little babe, and frail,
Young Duffy's hearse went slowly by:
He died in Milbank Jail.
When I could read, I spelt and knew
The lives of patriot men;
When I could write, my pencil traced—
“A Nation Once Again.”
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