Oh! comrades! think how Ireland pines,
Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines,
Her dearest hope, the ordered lines,
And bursting charge of Clare's Dragoons.
Then fling your Green Flag to the sky.
Be "Limerick" your battle-cry,
And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high,
Around the track of Clare's Dragoons!
chorus.
Viva la, the New Brigade!