JACOBITE RELICS.
15
In loyal strife, to bid our holy fane
Pour to approving heaven its welcome strain—
And lofty spirits of Milesian line,3
Freely in their white, happy homes entwine—
Proud and unfettered, from all controul,
Save the bright spell that binds them soul to soul—
Ireland.—But rest thee now! a firmer hope remains!—
A hand divine prepares to rend thy chains!
The Mother of the Man-God shall invoke,
The Eternal deal the liberating stroke.
The Scot—the Gael—the rallying thousands come;
The reeking sword half chokes the ravening tomb;
And o'er the deep the festering boars4 shall flee,
Racked with "the want, the woe," they wrought for thee.
