No hero is mine of the plume and the lance—
Yet worthy to claim the green bay of glory
In the lay of the singer of oldest romance.
Then, when the song of the minstrel is gone,
Forget not how Reilly—brave Reilly went on!
II.
Out from the East, like a bolt from the sky,
Thrilled the wild rumor of danger and dread—
Out from the East flamed a prayer and a cry—
A cry of the living, a cry of the dead—