There's a stillness over Monto,
And Dublin hangs it's head,
Anna Liffey is a swell of tears,
Can it be that Luke is dead,
That gentle man with the ginger curls,
Who was Ireland's mighty voice,
The Dubliner of Dubliners,
Now takes a jar with Joyce.

The rare old times are over,
His likes we'll never see,
And another part of Dublin,
Is but a memory.

No more he'll his banjo,
On a world which was his stage,
Or reach with haunting feelings,
The top notes of his range,
He's gone to join that mighty choir,
Where peace forever reigns,
But the memory he has left behind,
Is an eternal flame.

So build a monument to him,
In the midst of Dublin town,
Where his dear old friend Horatio,
For many years looked down,
Put his heart upon that column,
So his memory never dies,
But do justice to that music man,
And build it twice as high.