Be they gathered down at Casey’s with their kindred and their kind;
They are marching on for Ireland, with the beauteous vision gleaming
Of the altar-fires of Freedom in the land they left behind.
Not a torch was ever lighted at a tomb where Freedom slumbered,
But it smouldered—grimly smouldered—till the stone was rolled away;
When it flashed across the half-light, rallying rocket glares unnumbered,
Like the spangled blades of morning that bespeak the march of day.
Not a voice was ever lifted, but an echo never dying
Flung the slogan once repeated when the hand was on the gun;
Though the prophet tongue was ashes, came the conquering banners flying