XVII.
Ye mothers, too, breathe ye no sigh,
For them who thus could dare to die?
Are all your own dark hours forgot,
Of soul-sick suffering here?
Your pangs, as from yon mountain spot,
Death spoke in every booming shot,
That knelled upon your ear?
How oft that gloomy, glorious tale ye tell,
As round your knees your children’s children hang,
Of them, the gallant Ones, ye loved so well,
Who to the conflict for their country sprang.
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In pride, in all the pride of wo,
Ye tell of them, the brave laid low,
Who for their birthplace bled;
In pride, the pride of triumph then,
Ye tell of them, the matchless men,
From whom the invaders fled!