IRELAND
Harp of my country, I tune thee with gladness,
Now thy wild song all my being o'erfills,
Lifting my soul from its memories of sadness,
Flooding with joy as it vibrates and thrills.
Fame's on the wing and death's in the valleys,
War's on the world and Freedom's the prize,
Who, with head high, marches on with the Allies,
Ireland, 'tis she, with her glorified eyes.
Guiding her sons where the onset is fiercest,
Fearless of death, how she leads them along,
And where she rides, her mighty lance piercest,
As she sings the wild chant of the Celt's battle song.
Rangers of Connaught and Fusileers famous,
Irishmen all from the North to Dunloe,
Paddy and Michael and Terry and Shamus,
Oh, what a name they've made fighting the foe!
Down in the Balkans, in France, or in Flanders,
No matter where, sure 'tis ever the same,
Whether as privates or Marshal Commanders,
Ever on Ireland they've shed deathless fame.
Song of the Allies, sure that's "Tipperary",
Whose armies march to the lilt of that song.
Who thrilled the world? sure 'twas Michael O'Leary!
Irish,—the lad could to none else belong.
Oh, the long wait, now the blest vindication,
Ireland, asthore, smile again, 'tis the dawn;
Lo—on thy banners, see, Ireland a Nation,
The cloud has been lifted, the darkness is gone!