A fount it was whose living gush,
His hated arts defied.
'Tis fresh as when his foot accurst,
Was planted on our shore,
And vow and still as from the first,
We're Paddies evermore.
V.
What reck we though six hundred years
Have o'er our thraldom rolled,
The soul that roused O'Nial's spears
Still lives as true and bold;
The tide of foreign power to stem
Our fathers bled of yore,
And we stand here to-day like them,
True Paddies evermore.
VI.
Where's our allegiance? With the land
For which they nobly died.
Our duty? By our cause to stand,
Whatever chance betide.
Our cherished hope? To heal the woes
That rankle at her core.
Our scorn and hatred? To her foes,
Now, and for evermore.
VII.
The hour is past to fawn or crouch
As suppliants for our right;
Let word and deed unshrinking vouch
The banded millions' might;
Let them who scorned the fountain rill,
Now dread the torrent's roar,
And hear our echoed chorus still,
We're Paddies evermore.
