· Home
· Tickets & Infos
· News
· U2 Pictures
· All Tours History
· Personal Charts
· U2 Shop
· Contact
· Recommend us
The legendary U2 Popmart live from Mexico City is now available on DVD!
Yesterday in 1982
Festival Grounds, Werchter
1987
The Hippodrome, Paris
Today in 2005
Slaski Stadium, Chorzow
Tomorrow in 1985
Torhout Festival, Torhout
1993
Stadio Flaminio, Rome
2001
Forum, Copenhagen
2005
Murrayfield Stadium, Edinburgh
New U2 photos
| |
|
|
September 1913 (lyrics)
Poem by William Butler Yeats
Show all 616 song names in database.
This song has been played 6 times as full song or snippet.
This song has been played at the following 2 shows:
Various Dates
· 1989-04-30 - Dublin, Ireland - Abbey Theatre
· 2003-12-04 - Washington, District of Columbia - Library of Congress
This song has been snippeted at the following 4 shows:
ZOO TV Tour
· 1992-05-31 - London, England - Earl's Court Arena (21 songs)
· 1992-06-01 - Birmingham, England - National Exhibition Centre (22 songs)
· 1992-06-04 - Dortmund, Germany - Westfalenhalle (22 songs)
· 1992-06-13 - Kiel, Germany - Ostseehalle (21 songs)
September 1913 lyrics
What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone;
For men were born to pray and save;
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry `Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.
Poem by William Butler Yeats
|
|
|
