by Brendan Behan (1921-1963)
T'was on an August morning, all in the dawning hours, I went to take the warming air, all in the Month of Flowers, And there I saw a maiden, and mournful was her cry, 'Ah what will mend my broken heart, I've lost my Laughing Boy. So strong, so wild, and brave he was, I'll mourn his loss too sore, When thinking that I'll hear the laugh or springing step no more. Ah curse the times and sad the loss my heart to crucify, That an Irish son with a rebel gun shot down my Laughing Boy. Oh had he died by Pearse's side or in the GPO, Killed by an Enhlish bullet from the rifle of the foe, Or forcibly fed with Ashe lay dead in the dungeons of Mountjoy, I'd have cried with pride for the way he died, my own dear Laughing Boy. My princely love, my ageless love do more than tell to you, Go raibh mile maith agat for all you tried to do, For all you did, and would have done, my enemies to destroy, I'll mourn your name and praise your fame, forever, my Laughing Boy.