I

Oh, hear you the sound of shouting far over the eastern waves,
The voice of a people calling, " Come, help us, for we are slaves " ?
And see you the banners flying, the sinister glow of steel,
As the hordes of the tyrant gather, and the plains beneath them reel?

Why do the valleys of Erin ring with sound of a name
Once it were treason to utter? Why are her hill-tops aflame?
Has the long slumber been broken? Have the dead spoken at last,
Sending the slogan of battle far on the wild sweeping blast?

Ah, but the years are returning. Time is the righter of all.
He will repay for the slaughter, his voice will answer the call
That loud through the echoing ages, the ages of hatred, has told
How the hand of the slayer has reddened, his heart in its anger grown cold.

II

" What have we done that is criminal? Why are we holden in chains?
Where is the blot on our 'scutcheon? Where, on our record, the stains?
Have we not stood for our brothers when, like a fierce, crimson rain,
Over and over our bodies surged the red blood of our slain?

" Who, when our graves grew in number — who, when our hearthstones were bare,
Came with the burden of plenty, strong-limbed, and loyal, and fair?
Was it the nation that held us? She who grew rich from our spoil?
Rich from our courage in battle, rich from our daring in toil?

" No. In her halls she was feasting. What though we starved at her door;
We, who had beaten her foemen back from her wave-beaten shore,
We had no grain from her threshing, we had no wine from her press;
Only the scorn of her silence, while the store in our hovels grew less.

" Far over wide leagues of ocean came the white sails of the ships
Bearing the bread that would help us, the wine that was sweet to our lips.
What have we then to be glad for, what have we then to repay
To her who listened unheeding, holding her shut hands away?

" Nothing but hate do we owe her, nothing but battle and wrath;
She who has grown on our hunger, the serpent that rose in our path,
That filled our green valleys with wailing, and stole the strength of our lives,
And left in our desolate dwellings the tears and the moaning of wives.

" Look at the years in their passing — what have they given the world?
Hope for the gladness of nations, thought at all tyranny hurled,
Freedom for men held in bondage, deeds that were kindly and just, —
Only one land was forgotten, one banner still trails in the dust.

" Nothing have we to be glad for: once we had glory and pride,
Holding the beacon of promise, sending our call far and wide;
Then when the brightness of morning shone through the swift fading mist,
Loud rose the sound of our progress, song in our valleys made tryst.

" Say we are hard in our anger; say that our hands have grown red.
Have we not watched in the darkness, ay, there by our murdered dead,
In the beautiful land that bore us, the land that is ours by right,
Telling our sorrow in whispers, and fearing the gladness of light?

" Ours is the patient waiting; yes, and ours is the garnered wrong;
We have seen all our bright days darken, and the years grow cold and long;
We have worked when our hands were weary, but we did not reap the gain:
They have gathered the wheat and comfort, and left us the chaff and pain.

" Yet we do not envy their riches, — let them keep all their heavy gold,
And leave us our ancient birthright, the freedom we won of old,
When the dawning flashed in splendor on the lines of our level spears,
And we charged on the Danish foemen, while the air grew loud with cheers.

" The days of our waiting are numbered, the time of our serving past:
You can hear the braying of trumpets, the roll of drums on the blast;
And now when the war clouds gather, let us stand as we oft have stood,
When we held the front of the battle, and the earth was red with blood.

" Oh, men who have seen the sun-burst, the radiant coming of morn,
Surge over the purple mountains, shining down on your bending corn, —
By the triumph that brought you glory, by the blood that made you free,
Send us now a shout of greeting across the wide reaches of sea.

" For now, when our foe is marching, and the great guns dimly frown,
And the heavy wrath of the tempest on our famished land bears down,
When the lurid light of the bale-fires is gleaming up in the sky,
Far out through the growing darkness, we send you our passionate cry. "

III

Why are the fetters clashing? And why do the bright swords shine?
Is there coming another harvest of blood that is red as wine?
Yes; up through the heights of purple you can hear the cry, wind-blown,
Of a people loudly calling to be brought unto their own.

Ah, but the years are returning, and the dead will not lie still;
You can see their garments trailing far along each windy hill,
And the air is full of moaning, and the earth is salt with tears,
And the hate that is strong in battle is the bitter hate of years.

The high waves surge on the headlands, the wild winds sweep through the land,
And the murmurs of strife are rising: who now will idle stand?
For the tyrants are banded together, they will strike again and again,
And the struggle is that of Freedom, the strong, sweet Freedom of men.