| Cillian Murphy: |
| Dearest Mater, I'm gonna ask you not to worry about me, as I shall as be safe as houses. I'm still here in the land of the living. Any chance of seeing dear old Dublin again? We all just wish the war was over now, and I am quite certain that we'll finish off the Germans this year. I wonder will we ever get us the girls we deserve, or will there be none left for us when we get back home? Today, I found a piece of shamrock. Who says it grows nowhere else but our dear old Ireland? My teeth are not good now, but too late to be thinkin' of dentists. Each day, we must thank God we are still alive. But our losses are heavy, and my nerves are nearly gone. The rain has stopped, and then there was a black bird piping his merry song as we fixed bayonets and awaited our whistle. An eerie hush fell as men whispered their last words. The Dublins took our their rosary beads. Irishmen from North and South would now fight side by side, and they'll die side by side. Every man of historic Irish regiments knows what he must do today. I shall be going over the top now, and God grant that I come through safe. I have seen the tired eyes of rough men filled with tears, and i have never seen carnage like it. Not a single human body left intact, just bits and pieces, arms and legs and heads, as the enemy squealed and groaned and died, as we are now determined to kill every one we find. Nothing was spared. Nothing. And when done, there was not one more yard left. Ever your fond son, Michael. |
| |
| Sinéad: |
| The weight, it's killing me. |
| Soon our fates one will be. |
| When the whistle breaks this trance, |
| I'll see my friends take their last chance, |
| And we know there's no return. |
| Our hopes in this home will burn, |
| But now I can see little children play |
| Upon green hills far, far away. |
| Our girls, our mums, our friends, |
| I can see their tears. |
| They know our end, |
| For now our time has come, |
| And only God survives Man's gun. |
| I can't go on one more yard. |
| |
| Grey ghosts now drifting by. |
| Oh, I can hear their lonesome cries. |
| And this battle now is over |
| For all my friends all gone and died. |
| And now it's time to mail a prayer |
| To our god, "Spare me again |
| So I can still fight on." |
| This war's so hard; |
| I can't go on one more yard. |
