The blood of Robert Bruce is in his veins;
The Scottish pipes bring forth,
Ye Britons of the North,
And rouse again the ancient Scottish strains.
At Tara, in the famous days of old,
Ere Scotland saw the mystic Stone of Fate,
The kings of Ireland, girt with heroes bold.
Were crowned upon it wth befitting state;
King Edward's sires their shields at Tara bore,
And Irish bards their prowess sang of yore.
Ye sons of Ireland raise
Your voices loud in praise;
Bring forth the harp, as did your sires renowned;
Attune the vibrant strings,
A son of Ireland's kings
Upon the Lia-Fail is to be crowned.
In England, Scotland, Ireland, ancient days
Have vanished; but a living link exists.
That binds them to the present, and the gaze
Doth carry backward through the ancient mists;
Through thirty generations handed down,
The stock of Alfred still doth wear the crown;
To ancient feuds a truce,
The lines of Robert Bruce
And Edward now are blended into one;
The harp of Ireland sound,
A king is to be crowned
Of Ireland's royal line, and strife is done.
II.
Chaldea, Persia, Greece and Rome,
The greatest empires of the past,
Were evanescent, like the foam
That lives a moment with the blast;
They bowed their heads at Ruin's call.
And feebly tottered to their fall;
The homes of bats and owls were all
Their palaces at last.
They could not live; their corner-stones
Were wars that freeborn men enslaved;
They could not live; with human bones
