He cleared his throat once or twice and then began to recite:

He is dead. Our Uncrowned King is dead.

O, Erin, mourn with grief and woe

For he lies dead whom the fell gang

Of modern hypocrites laid low.

He lies slain by the coward hounds

He raised to glory from the mire;

And Erin’s hopes and Erin’s dreams

Perish upon her monarch’s pyre.

In palace, cabin or in cot

The Irish heart where’er it be

Is bowed with woe —