In my dream I walk in the times gone by
On the western edge of a heartbreak shore
Where sleep’s dark fears are howling ‘round
In the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
Near the edge of a cliff there’s an angry
crowd with hungry faces crowding around
’fear in their eyes when they hear the drum
In the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
The troops come on with bayonets fixed
Pushing the people to the mountain’s lip
A cry goes out as the first goes down
in the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
The troops move off in single file.
The Empire grows by an Irish mile.
A voice cries out from the rocks below in
the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
In my dream I walk in the times gone by
As close to the edge as my fears allow
in the air there's a prayer for pity and revenge
In the bitter bitter dark of a cold wet world
Behold! An Irishman who remains true to his ancestry. In his dreams, if not in his grievance. GW62
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is as near to a classic as any poem can get. That is, of course, if you ignore those unfortunate typos. Correct them and 'wow' this is good. Adeline