Got me gaoled behind the taffrail of the Old Mass Shandrydan.
“Yerra, Johnnie, stop that gawkin.” Is it—with the pulses pumping,
And the little heart high-stepping to the music of the drum—
Is it “stop it,” with a something in the young blood madly thumping
With a foreword of the purpose of the pregnant years to come?
Mighty things were done at Casey’s. Mighty impulse was behind them,
’Twas the sacred spark enkindled that was burning to the bone;
Never yet were men more loyal to the holy ties that bind them,
And the love they gave their country made me conscious of my own.
Never yet were men more loyal. Be they met in thousands teeming,