May
Saturday 25 July 2009 photo 1/1
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There's a uniform that's hanging
In what's known as Father's room
A uniform so simple in it's style
It has no braid of gold or silk no hat with feathered plumes
Yet Mother has preserved it all the while
One day she made me try it on
a wish of mine for years
"In memory of your father, Sean" she said.
And when I put the Sam Browne on
she was smiling with the tears
As she placed the broad black brimmer on my head.
It's just a broad black brimmer
With its ribbons frayed and torn
By the careless whisk of many a mountain breeze
An old trench coat that's battle stained and worn
And breeches almost threadbare at the knees
A Sam Browne belt, with a buckle big and strong
A holster that's been empty many a day... but not for long!
And when men claim Ireland's freedom
The one they'll choose to lead 'em
Will wear the broad black brimmer of the IRA
<span style="position: relative;">
There's a uniform that's hanging
In what's known as Father's room
A uniform so simple in it's style
It has no braid of gold or silk no hat with feathered plumes
Yet Mother has preserved it all the while
One day she made me try it on
a wish of mine for years
"In memory of your father, Sean" she said.
And when I put the Sam Browne on
she was smiling with the tears
As she placed the broad black brimmer on my head.
It's just a broad black brimmer
With its ribbons frayed and torn
By the careless whisk of many a mountain breeze
An old trench coat that's battle stained and worn
And breeches almost threadbare at the knees
A Sam Browne belt, with a buckle big and strong
A holster that's been empty many a day... but not for long!
And when men claim Ireland's freedom
The one they'll choose to lead 'em
Will wear the broad black brimmer of the IRA
<span style="position: relative;">
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