But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere Ireland's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintained its man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store,
Just gave what life required, but gave no more;
His best companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
The broken soldier kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;