The curlew stood silent and unseen
In the long damp grass
And he looked down on the road below him
That wound its way through Beal Na mBlath
And he heard the young men shouting and cursing
Running backwards and forwards
Dodging and weaving and ducking the bullets
That rained down on them
From the hillside opposite.
Just as quickly as it started the firing stopped
And a terrible silence hung over the valley
A lone figure lay on the roadside
In the drizzling August rain
Dressed in green cape coat, leggings,
And brown hobnail boots
That would never again
Set the sparks flying from the kitchen flagstones
As he danced his way through a half-set
A hurried whispered act of contrition
And the firing breaks out again
The curlew takes to flight
And as he flies out over the empty sad fields of West Cork
With his lonesome call
He must tell the world
That the big fellow has fallen
And that Michael is gone
On a far off August day, cold young men in ambush lay,
On a roadside on a hill where flowers grow,
So much hate for one so young, who was right and who was wrong,
Though a thousand years may pass we'll never know.
Candles dripping blood they placed beside your shoulders
Rosary beads like teardrops on your fingers,
Friends and comrades standing by, in their grief they wonder why,
Michael in their hour of need you had to go.
And when evening twlight came, gentle fell the August rain,
Oh but you lay still and silent on the ground,
As we hung our heads in prayer, in our sorrow and dispare,
We wondered was it friend or foe who shot you down,
Now the flame that you held high, when you called out to the sky,
To end this senselell killing and this shame,
Has now passed to other hands and is carried through the land
By some not fit to even speak your name
In the long damp grass
And he looked down on the road below him
That wound its way through Beal Na mBlath
And he heard the young men shouting and cursing
Running backwards and forwards
Dodging and weaving and ducking the bullets
That rained down on them
From the hillside opposite.
Just as quickly as it started the firing stopped
And a terrible silence hung over the valley
A lone figure lay on the roadside
In the drizzling August rain
Dressed in green cape coat, leggings,
And brown hobnail boots
That would never again
Set the sparks flying from the kitchen flagstones
As he danced his way through a half-set
A hurried whispered act of contrition
And the firing breaks out again
The curlew takes to flight
And as he flies out over the empty sad fields of West Cork
With his lonesome call
He must tell the world
That the big fellow has fallen
And that Michael is gone
On a far off August day, cold young men in ambush lay,
On a roadside on a hill where flowers grow,
So much hate for one so young, who was right and who was wrong,
Though a thousand years may pass we'll never know.
Candles dripping blood they placed beside your shoulders
Rosary beads like teardrops on your fingers,
Friends and comrades standing by, in their grief they wonder why,
Michael in their hour of need you had to go.
And when evening twlight came, gentle fell the August rain,
Oh but you lay still and silent on the ground,
As we hung our heads in prayer, in our sorrow and dispare,
We wondered was it friend or foe who shot you down,
Now the flame that you held high, when you called out to the sky,
To end this senselell killing and this shame,
Has now passed to other hands and is carried through the land
By some not fit to even speak your name
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