In ár gCroíthe go deo 

 

 

Those bloody dead
This debt we owe,
Abide with me,
Never let me go.

That mocking voice,
Those clever folk
Display their wit
In the cutting joke.

This tree that grew
Those shady nooks
This dappled sunlight
These gilded brooks.

For men may come to worse than dust
When love of self is breach of trust:
A dog’s true love means more to me
Than reams and reams of your philosophy.