Open main menu


"Jusque la nous leur ferons guerre à mort."—Donald O'Nial, King of Ulster, to Pope John.

How many a year,
In fleet career,
Have circled o'er its blackened strand,
Since first that vow,
Forgotten now,
Was plighted to our native land?
And still the crimes
Of those dark times
Are perpetrated hour by hour,
And Saxon fraud,
By God unaw'd,
Goes hand in hand with Saxon power!

What lesson stern
Thou'st left to learn,
Oft baffled, but unyielding King,
"In peace or strife,
In death or life,
The Saxon bears a poison'd sting.
Then weal or woe,
Strike home the blow,
And win at least the hero's fate,
And far on high
Your destiny
Shall rank with stars of loftiest state."

O'Nial swears
The crown he wears,
While throbs one pulse, or heaves one breath,
To meet thy band
With glove and brand,
Invading brigand to the death.
Nor length of years,
Nor blood nor tears,
Defeat, disaster, nor distress,
Shall mar the word
Pledg'd on the sword
He clutches for the merciless.