This is the crisis of our authority,

Unless we destroy them now

All that we stand for shall be destroyed.

Rebellion has risen out of the farmyard

And the city slum,

To dwell in the highest places

And even the most familiar faces

Are not our friends

We cannot depend on England;

We never could

Since Cromwell died.

The English are always ready to talk

And compromise.

Parnell and Gladstone nearly talked our cause to death,

And it is a waste of breath

To talk with traitors.

What they really want

They will not say,

And that which we most fear

In the clear light of day

Appears to have no substance,

Like a dream.

And yet it is everywhere,

Lurking behind the hedges

And around the corners.

The very songs they sing,

The games they play,

Are rebel games and rebel songs.

Day by day

Our authority and our power

Will ebb away.

The only friend we have

Is naked fear.

This is our country,

We in our manner love it to distraction;

Unless we can breathe this air

And build our homes

Beneath this sky,

Not for ourselves only

But for our children,

All our roots will wither

And we shall die.

We cannot share it with these people;

What they call freedom

To us is to deny

Our right to rule.

Unless we can determine

The pattern of power

In Church and state,

Nothing shall remain unto us

But antique memories

Enshrined in their language.

There is no other country

We could love like this land.

They think we are a cold cruel people.

If we were not cold

Our love would destroy us.

If we were not cruel

Our love would betray us.

Even in our childhood

We grow old

To pity.

Therefore we must now decide

To strike and strike deep.

We must begin tomorrow;

In his sleep

We will kill

The Lord Mayor of Cork.

December 1960