“Descend,” they cry, “from your cross of shame;

Abjure the Faith—see the road that enters

The groves of pleasure and wealth and fame!”

Like those that passed where the Cross rose dimly

Their wise beards wagging—“What fools!” they say;

But the Sons of Patrick make answer grimly:

“Our God we’ve chosen—the price we’ll pay.

“Ever about us the foes’ commotion,

The anguish sweat on our brows ne’er dry;

Our martyr’s bones strew the land and ocean,