In Bodenstown churchyard there is a green grave
And wildly around it the winter winds rave;
Smaller shelter I ween are the ruined walls there
When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare

Once I stood on that spot, it lies over Wolfe Tone
And thought how he perished in prison alone
His friends unavenged and his country unfreed
"Oh, bitter," I said, "is the patriot's mead"

For in him the heart of a woman combined
With a heroic spirit and a governing mind
A martyr for Ireland, his grave has no stone
His name seldom named, and his virtues unknown

I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread
Of a band who came into the home of the dead;
They carried no corpse, and they carried no stone
And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe Tone

My heart overflowed as I grasped his old hand
I blessed him and blessed every one of his band:
"Sweet, sweet tis to find that such faith can remain
In the cause and the man so long vanquished and slain"

In Bodenstown churchyard there is a green grave
And freely around it let winter winds rave
Far better they suit him, the ruin and the gloom
Till Ireland, a nation, can build him a tomb