VI.
Then here's their memory—may it be
For us a guiding light,
To cheer our strife for liberty,
And teach us to unite.
Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,
Though sad as theirs your fate;
And true men be you, men,
Like those of Ninety-Eight.
WESTERN WAR-SONG.
A.D. 1642.
I.
Lo! Freedom again hath appear'd on our hills,
Already the isle her divinity fills;
The harp wakes—the sword rattles—and kindles the brand—
While the breeze of her wings passes over the land.
II.
From the rock guarded mountains—her cradle and throne—
She moves in her splendour—she moves not alone;
For myriads unsheathing the chain-breaking sword,
Now hail the bright vision long vainly ador'd.
III.
The war's nightly blaze from the mountain shall rise,
And thine Oriflamme, Ruin! stream red to the skies,
Till, numberless, thronging, with torches and swords,
We chase back to ocean these foreigner hordes.
IV.
When the foul fetter clanks on the son of the hills,
His frame with the rage of a chaf'd tiger thrills—
With clenched hand, iron sinews, and fiercely knit brow—
Could a harness of adamant baffle him now?
