His fancy changed: the youthful face
In sternness now was set,
His woes had left no coward trace
Upon his spirit yet;
His cold, thin lips were tightly press’d,
His cheeks were all aglow;
Expanded seemed the hollow chest,
His brows contract, as though
Disturbed and broken was his rest
By some nocturnal foe.
He dreamt that in his native land,
Away from this bleak jail,
He stood within a meadow grand,
A shamrock-spangled vale.
Above the scene the sun-rays bright
In glittering grandeur beamed,
Around him in their golden light
Ten thousand bayonets beamed,
And o’er his head, oh, glorious sight!
Green Erin’s banner streamed.
From town and village, hill and glen,
With clamorous fife and drum,
From mountain brake and lowland fen
The mustering legions come;
The war-worn soldier, bronzed and brown,
Has brought his dinted blade;
While quickly from the neighboring town
Flock in the sons of trade;
The farmer flings his good spade down,
And joins the dense brigade.
The fiery Northmen, in whose veins
Still flows the blood of those
Who on a hundred battle-plains
Have conquered Erin’s foes—
The brave descendants of O’Neill,
A stern and fearless band,
A living wall of sparkling steel
Beneath the old flag stand,
And many a Saxon foe shall feel
Tyrconnell’s vengeful hand.
With Ulster’s columns, side by side,
Are Munster’s squadrons massed,
Like tigers into line they glide,
So noiselessly and fast;
Ah! crimsoned soon will be the green
They bear into the fray,
Through England’s host their sabres keen
Shall carve a corse-strewn way,
And Limerick and Skibbereen
Be well avenged to-day.
Proud Leinster, all your chivalry
To arms electric spring;
High ’mid the battle’s revelry
Your stirring shout shall ring;
And many a foe this day shall rue
Your fierce, impetuous might;
The scenes that gallant Wexford knew
Shall be reversed ere night;
The epitaph to Emmet due
Your gleaming swords shall write.
O’Connor’s soul, grim Connaught, lives
Within your ranks this hour;
Before the strength your hatred gives
Well may the despot cower.
Think of your long, black night of tears,
And say, can you forget
The tyrant’s scorn, his jibes and jeers—
That huge, uncancelled debt,
The wrongs of thrice two hundred years
That scourge your province yet?
Hark to that distant rumbling sound!
See, yonder come the foe;
Now be our arms with victory crowned,
The foreign scum laid low.
The stillness and the calm are o’er,
And many a sulphurous cloud,
Betinged with flame and dripping gore,
Shall form a battle-shroud
For those whose tongues may swell no more
The nation’s slogan loud.
Like hostile torrents armies clash,
And steel now crosses steel,
The lurid flames incessant flash,
And volleyed thunders peal;
But backward reel the alien ranks,
With one exultant cry,
Sweep, Irish heroes, on their flanks,
Not vainly will ye die;
Oh, mighty God of battles, thanks,
The craven red-coats fly!
’Tis o’er; the victory is ours;
And though yon darling flag
May float above our castle towers
A torn and tattered rag,
’Tis still our own; and every fold
Preserved us from the strife,
Each shred around that flag-staff rolled
Unpierced by ball or knife,
Is worth a mine of virgin gold—
Aye, worth a hero’s life.