O ye who have vanquished the land and retain it,
How little ye know what ye miss of delight!
There are worlds in her heart — could ye seek it or gain it —
That would clothe a true noble with glory and might.

What is she, this Isle which ye trample and ravage,
Which ye plough with oppression, and reap with the sword,
But a harp, never strung, in the hall of a savage,
Or a fair wife embraced by a husband abhorred?

The chiefs of the Gael were the people embodied;
The chiefs were the blossoms, the people the root!
Their conquerors, the Normans, high-souled and high-blooded,
Grew Irish at last from the scalp to the foot.

And ye! — ye are hirelings and satraps, not nobles!
Your slaves, they detest you; your masters, they scorn!
The river lives on — but the sun-painted bubbles
Pass quick, to the rapids insensibly borne.