The Last 35

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Mark Lyndon

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State occupied, arrested for servitude,
We slept in huts stacked up on the slope where that heather grew.
Waiting in line, we queued for eternity,
With neither trial nor charge sheet to justify custody.
And the damp breeze from the Galtees.
News from the fence, coming in late July,
That a truce was signed and release might be granted us any time,
But summer passed by, without talk of compromise.
We stayed in rags and eyes fell down by that fireside.
As the mist grew around the Galtees.
We, the last 35, having fought now forgotten
You can keep that flag if this is our lot
Through the dirt we'll be coming, one by one.
Whispers at night, from our excavation site
We dug in turns 'neath the sleeping worms to the other side.
When the time was right, we each of us crawled inside.
The tunnel held through the fields we fled unidentified.
They won't catch me on the Galtees.
We, the last 35, dug right up from the bottom.
If you want it done, you may do it yourself
All in dirt we're well gotten amongst ourselves.
There ends our plight, 'ner to return inside
And our own battalion marched on Kilworth to take that site.
But I watched them from the Galtees.

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