As I was passing Dublin Gate,
I met a man who dined on hate,
Who supped upon a sea of song
Made bitter by an ancient wrong.
As I passed through a Belfast mist,
I met a man who shook his fist,
Who preyed upon the men of hate
Who crept at night through Dublin Gate.
As I was passing Cromwell Street,
I met a man blown off his feet,
Who scrawled in blood upon a stone:
No prisoners! God will know His own!
As I was passing Parliament,
I met a man whose orders sent
Young squaddies out upon the street
To shoot at men they’d never meet.
As I was passing New York State,
I met a man who heaped a plate
With others’ pain; who paid a fee
To be a part of history.
As I passed by a widow’s door
I heard a cry: Dear Christ, no more!
A pox upon your Dublin Gate,
You Belfast mist... your men of hate.
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