by Joan O'Connell
Down in a valley, over the hill
There in a grave Ireland's hopes lie still.
They killed Ireland's bravest son for a Nation he was breaking because he could not see Ireland won by the gun.
Down in the valley on a lonesome home path
caught in a trap he was gunned down by a headstrong young chap who shot in the back
Ireland's protégée the brave Michael Collins.
Down in a valley on a green grassy hill his blood they spilled.
Killing an ideal, he, only he could make real.
Yes, he made a deal but by an English appeal.
Only he could seal the path to Irish Freedom.
He wanted to live he didn't want to die for castles in the sky.
But he died for a nation of people who had not the patience to give him a chance with his brains of finance.
He could foresee what Ireland could be.
But they only wanted the feel of guns of steel.
To run and steal, this is the way they would make Ireland free.
What good have they done since they shot him down with a gun.
Yes they shot Irelands Protégée.
The brave Mick Collins.
They dug him his grave the people he tried to save.
But they were too soaked in spite to relinquish the fight too ignorant to see the powers he could have set free
too stupid to see Ireland near her goal.
Oh Ireland's patriots I despise because you shot the only man who could have saved Ireland.
Down in a valley over a hill there in a grave Ireland hopes lie still.
Yes ,the brave Mick Collins