Or men who, in flight
From the field of disaster,
Beseech the black night
On their flight to fall faster;
Or seamen aghast
When their planks gape asunder,
And the waves fierce and fast
Tumble through in hoarse thunder;
Or men whom we see
That have got their death-omen—
Such wretches are we
In the chains of our foemen!
Our courage is fear,
Our nobility vileness,
Our hope is despair,
And our comeliness foulness.
There is mist on our heads,
And a cloud chill and hoary
Of black sorrow sheds
An eclipse on our glory.
From Boyne to the Linn
Has the mandate been given,
That the children of Finn
From their country be driven.
That the sons of the king—
Oh, the treason and malice!—
Shall no more ride the ring
In their own native valleys;
No more shall repair
Where the hill foxes tarry,
Nor forth to the air
Fling the hawk at her quarry;
For the plain shall be broke
By the share of the stranger,
And the stone-mason's stroke
Tell the woods of their danger;
The green hills and shore
Be with white keeps disfigured,
And the Moat of Rathmore
Be the Saxon churl's haggard!