For the splendour and state of a blushing young bride,
Preside, unabashed, o'er thy Great Exhibition,
Thy heart humbly swelling with glory and pride.
Yes, Ireland, thy lap filled with all the world's riches,
Of thy shirt-sleeves the elbows, gone ragged of yore,
Shall no longer hang out at the knees of thy breeches,
And the toes of thy brogues out at heel go no more.
Too long has the Demon of fell agitation,
By the dark torch of discord diffused o'er the land,
Created a stir, which has caused a stagnation,