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98 G. A. J. c.
Builders of homesteads, thirsty for the soil,
Green lands and droughtless, carpeted with dew.
We that came after, racing prow to prow, Men of the grey lands, narrowing to the pole.
Strangers and fair-haired — none are strangers now ; We gave our heart's blood; you gave us back a soul.
The Fighting Line : —
Heart's blood of our blood, is the throb so weak,
Ireland, our Ireland, lost beyond the seas ? Thousands of living, nay dead men, rise and speak.
From Flanders on to the ancestral Cyclades. These are from Ireland, these to Ireland calling.
Look to the sunrise, shaft on shaft unfurled, Look to the light once more on Valmy falling,
Where France in arms first clarioned the world.
— G. A. J. C.
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