Many a sword hath nobly wrought,
Many a warrior bravely fought,
Whose name the lyre hath never taught
To swell his nation’s minstrelsy.
In lonely woods their ashes sleep,
Whose dewy leaves above them weep,
And wild birds chant their dirges sweet—
But none e’er list their melody.
Oh, when we pledge our father’s fame,
One flowing goblet let us drain