But the sword of the Spirit still waves from on high,
And the harp of the Lord sounds in majesty forth,
As of yore it was heard from the lands of the north.
Again, oh, my country! on thy hills of renown,
Oppression, relentless, has darkly come down—
On the breeze of the mountain is borne the loud wail,
And the lowlands reply to the wrongs of the Gael.
From the dark page of history shadows are cast,
And the woes of the future loom out from the past;
There are omens of evil, enshrouded in blood,