![]() My brother was a rebel with a Thousand causes. , And labour shall rise from her knees, boys, Proudly she lifts her head and belts out the end of her song. Our kitchen seven of us my mother scrub- bing and singing. My mother sang not just of hatred, but of the blessed day to come when the darkest hour would herald the brightest dawn. The great who trod our fathers down, Who steal our children's bread, Whose greedy hands are e'er outstretched To rob the living and the dead. My mother rocked him to the air of Connolly's rebel song: Come workers sing a rebel song, A song of love and hate, Of love unto the lowly And of hatred to the great. He came out of a house that never took poverty or coPpression for granted. He really fought for the things he believed in. Disappointed in the collapse of the left-wing world that looked upon Stalin as our father and Russia as our Mecca.įor my brother was first and foremost a rebel. Yes, dis- appointed in the failure of the republican movement. ![]() Hidden behind a waterfall Of beer was a man who could no longer live in a world where all the things he had fought for came to nothing. Why did he kill himself, a man who loved life? Loved to swim, play Rugby football and, above all, read. The biggest thing about their stories was their complete lack of knowledge about Brendan. Was this all there was to brother Brendan? Was he just the poor man's drunken Beatle? The crown prince of the never-ending booze- UP? The press wrote big headlines that said nothing. 'Oh, [know, the big fat Irishman that was always getting drunk on telly. WHAT do I think of Brendan Behan?' The lorry driver looked worried for a minute. Ah death where is thy sting a Iing a ling.
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