The peasant of the sister Isle
has with our best and bravest bled,
That peasant now is all that’s vile—
Or—is your sense of justice dead?
Do right, and you perhaps will find
Him generous still, and brave, and kind.
No more these idle fictions whine!
On Liffey’s banks, on Shannon’s shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as your English mothers bore.