English

Warriors all for Ireland's sake!
Whatever our party or creed,
The men who will fight for the truth and the right,
Are men of the Irish breed!

Warriors all, and who would hang back
With the soul of the world in pain?
We'll give of our best as we've given before
Please God we won't give in vain!

Warriors all, we welcome the call!
We know that we truly can say
What Ireland did in the days of yore,
Ireland will still do to-day.

Warriors all, come, answer the call!
And show them what you can do,

He who hath deemed another and himself as the same,
He who hath deemed the day (of joy) and the night (of sorrow) to be alike,
He whose mind hath become free from duality,
He, and he alone, hath seen the Lord of the chiefest of the gods.

Youth sees the world before him, and the path
Of sin how fair, hedged in by every sweet
That flowers can breathe, or melting fruits distil;
For ever winding in its blossomed maze,
It meets the eye with pleasures ever new;
It leads to luscious gardens, snowy beds
Of lilies, heaps of roses, citron shades,
That breathe alluring fragrance, cool retreats
Beneath o'erarching vines, and lonely grots,
Where nectared fountains bubble, amber streams
Of kindling waters murmur, on whose banks
Couches of matted grass and scented bloom

Once more on the mighty engine, boys,
With my hand on the driver's arm,
And again at his touch through each fire-leading vein
Throbs a flood of the life-giving charm.
Then away he speeds as a light in the north
Shooting up makes the heavens grow pale;
At my feet the glow and the beat of his heart,
And beneath them the ring of the rail.

Hurrah! how each sweep of his lightning limb
Flashes swifter than that of the last,
While, wild as the flight in a dream of the night,
The distance is galloping past.

Into all the onward current and this iron time that feels
Its own way with din and clamour through this century of ours
Come I, while the toiling planet like some stricken monster reels
In an overheat to reach the very climax of its powers.

But the ages, ever watchful of their growing higher need,
Cry—“Before we hail him poet, glowing with the vatic mood,
He must, with his brow turn'd upward, stand like rock upon his creed,
Ours shall be the task to shelter what may spring from where he stood.”

What glorious landscape woos the raptured eye,
What heavenly music wakes the raptured ear,
What radiant clouds are floating in the sky,
What gorgeous colours hill and valley wear,
What craggy mountains, and what leafy woods,
What tiny streamlets, and what ocean floods!

Far in the east, the Bass and Berwick Law
Stand bluffly out against the pearly sky,
Their bosoms lashed with waves of silvered snaw,
Their summits lit with hues of orient dye,
Gleaming more brightly 'mid the hazy grey,

Why treasures hoard, that rust and rot,
Or gold that thieves may steal?
Why are those priceless gems forgot
That bear God's holy seal?
Strive ye to gain the Christian's share,
And store in heaven your prize;
For if your dearest treasure's there,
There will your wishes rise.

On food and raiment wherefore spend
Your life in careworn thought,
While food for an immortal mind
Remains by you unsought?
Your Father feeds the fowls of air,
Who neither reap nor sow;
The lilies spin not, yet how fair

Your sleek hypocrisy in white cravat
May cheat your grocer on his office stool,
Your oily accents, plausible and cool,
May please your widowed tenant and her cat;
And pompous pride, in broadcloth, fed and fat,
May seem an oracle in Sunday school—
And yet I know you both for knave and fool;
So spare your grinning and put on your hat.

Eternity itself were scarce enough
To learn a true man's quality, were he
Still but the humblest of a peasant stripe;
But the poor tinsel of your proper stuff

To-night a word, a whisper,
Through long, long miles there thrills,
To you beside the river,
From one among the hills.

Above the town's sad turmoil
Your listening heart shall hear
The murmuring sound of alders,
The whispered word of cheer!

There are fifty million dollars in the room.
The splendid bellow of the barytone
Smites on a note to topple down a throne,
Mussorgsky boding forth an empire's doom.
There is lava in that song that can consume
Wild nations, and artillery's rhythmic drone,
Rebellion yelling, and wild trumpets blown,
And a blood-boltered Tsar dragged to the tomb.

So all the bare-backed women sigh applause,
Silk rustles, and the diamond collars glint,
And vacant eyes smile wide, as if no hint
Of horror hung upon the resonant air,