It was springtime in the mountains,
Walking free, blowing wild
Over lovers in the heather.
And a linnet sang on thistles
To a melody of kisses.
The sun was rising, rising
On the day of resurrection.
And a thorn tree was swaying
Keeping sunray from their eyes.
Then a sound like thunder
Shook the gladness from the day.
Sleepily, the lovers rose
From the shelter where they lay.
They strained their ears to hear
The breaking of the sky.
And in the streets of Dublin
Young men had choose to die.
A seagull from the sky came down,
Quick-dropping from the sun.
His weak twitching wings were blooded.
A rising had begun.