IRISH ARE NO LONGER SLAVES.
Air—"Rule Britannia."
I.
When Britain first, at hell's command,
Prepar'd to cross the Irish main,
Thus spoke a prophet in our land,
'Mid traitors' scoff, and fools' disdain,
"If Britannia, Britannia cross the waves,
Irish ever shall be slaves.
II.
And suff'ring still with slav'ry found,
Shall bruise your heart, and sere your brain—
Lost Isle! with matchless beauty crown'd
But wanting strength to break your chain;
If Britannia, Britannia cross the waves,
Irish ever shall be slaves."
III.
In vain the warning patriot spoke,
In treach'rous guise Britannia came,
Divided, bent us to her yoke,
Till Ireland rose, in Freedom's name,
And Britannia, Britannia boldly braves,
Irish are no longer slaves!
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.
I.
Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?
Who blushes at the name?
When cowards mock the patriots' fate,
Who hangs his head for shame?
He's all a knave, or half a slave,
Who slights his country thus;
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.
