XI.
Then, oh! when green Erin her trust and her might,
Shall summon to battle for God and our right—
For the home of our hearts, or the freedom of man,
May one gallant phalanx still march in the van—
The Men of the North.
A SONG FOR IRISHMEN.
Look down on Erin's verdant vales—so rich, so gay, so green—
And tell me, can a bosom throb, not loving Ocean's queen?
Look round on Erin's mossy moors, her meads and mountains high,
And tell me, does a dastard live, who'd not for Erin die?
No, no; in Erin lives not now a traitor to her cause—
The thundering voice A Nation speaks, each traitor overawes—
A beaming light is burning bright, on mountain, rock, and sea,
And by the mighty march of mind our land will soon be free.
Then strike the harp, old Erin's harp, with fearless force and bold—
It breathes not for a tim'rous hand—nor for a heart that's cold;
It loves the open gen'rous soul—the bold—the brave—the free;
But for the craven, crouching slave it has no melody.
You're men—as such should know your rights, and knowing should defend;
Who would be free, themselves must dare the tyrant's chain to rend;
Oh, fruitless is the grief that springs above a nation's fears—
One firm resolve of mighty men is worth a tide of tears.
Then brace your buckler round your breast—for Erin be resigned—
The murky morn is gone that pall'd your energies of mind;
And now o'er Erin's misty hills A Nation's banner waves—
Then, up—arise—be men and free, or be for ever slaves.
