Letras
November twenty-first, nineteen twenty
On the sacred turf of Croke
The Tipperary lads came to play
In the green and gold they spoke
But Black and Tans burst through the gates
With rifles primed to kill
Fourteen souls fell in the hail
And the blood ran down the hill
They came for the match
The roar of the crowd
Young men in their prime
Hogan, Hogan, and the boys so proud
Beneath a Dublin sky
No warning given, no mercy shown
The machine guns spat their hate
Michael Hogan lay dying alone
As the bullets sealed his fate
Children in the stands, a mother's cry
A player's final breath
The pitch turned red where heroes lie
In the arms of sudden death
Tipperary versus Dublin town
A game that never ends
For the roar was drowned
In a murderous sound
That broke a nation's friends
Oh, the fourteen who never came home
From Croke Park's bloody clay
Gunned down for the green
They proudly owned
On that black November day
We weep for the laughter the bullets stole
For the dreams that died in mud
But rage boils black in every soul
For the innocent spilled blood
Fourteen names on a martyr's scroll
Forever in our roar
They played for us, and paid the toll
Oh, God, what was it for?
The Auxiliaries claimed a rebel fight
Though no gun was ever drawn
They fired on the crowd in broad daylight
To terrorize the dawn
Reprisal for the Cairo Gang's fall
That morning in their beds
But vengeance took the wrong ones all
Innocent, now dead
From Jones' Road the screams arose
As the stands became a grave
A boy of ten, in Sunday clothes
Joined the souls they couldn't save
The British lied, the papers spun