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A ballad about the Irish patriot, Michael Collins, who was assassinated August 22, 1922 in Beal na mBlath, County Cork, Ireland.
Marianne O’Brien, but twenty-three,
when an older man asked her to marry;
he owned a farm, outside Sam’s Cross,
‘tween Clonakilty and Rosscarbery.
Named for Woodfield, handsome hillside,
nestled in the river valley,
where they raised eight, young Michael last,
on Black Beach rocks he fished and tarried.
Just six years old, when his father passed,
praising his dear boy from his deathbed:
“Mind that child, he’ll be great yet –
oh, he’ll do great things for Ireland!”
First Michael schooled at Lisavaird;
David Lyons, headmaster - guide;
he and James Santry, local smitty,
bestowed the lad strong Irish pride.
Back to Clonakilty, his mother’s wish –
to study for Postal exams;
with flying colors he graduated–
but destiny had other plans.
With the Volunteers on the Easter Rising;
saw civilians killed by the British guns.
John Connolly’s aide, when he met defeat,
fought ‘side his troops on Sackville Street.
And in the Valley, of Beal na mBlath,
“Mouth of the flowers” - his spirit roams.
He’s fighting still, for sovereignty at last!
Yes, fighting for Ireland, his beloved home.
When Michael Collins was freed from prison,
he rebuilt the IRB;
was elected, a Sinn Fein leader,
impassioned to set Ireland free.
So he built an Intel network,
organized a national loan,
an assassin squad – the “Twelve Apostles”
chased Black and Tans - Auxiliaries home.
de Valera sent him to London,
to negotiate a treaty dear;
He prophesized, when he signed that paper:
“I have signed my death warrant here.”
A civil war began to threaten –
Michael now Commander-In-Chief;
tried to unite his divided brethren –
Ireland his love and one belief.
But the fray began, Brugha killed in Dublin
and Griffith died of the treaty’s bounty.
Though sick inside and low in spirit;
said: “They won’t shoot me in my own County.”
To his cherished Cork on his mission last,
to review his troops – eight that fateful night,
Michael was ambushed at Beal na mBlath –
shot down at home in his final fight.
And in the Valley, of Beal na mblath,
“Mouth of the flowers” - his spirit roams.
He’s fighting still, for sovereignty at last!
Yes, fighting for Ireland, his beloved home.
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