POETRY.
TO THE IRISH DEAD: A SONG AT STARTING. FROM English ships, on Irish lips, loud bid their praises flow. The gallant hearts, the faithful hearts, the men of long ago. As we to-day, so ofttimes they, set forth the earth to roam, But ah! 'twas not like ours their lot, behind them lay no
home !
Wherever swept the tide of war the whole fierce planet through, Wherever there were fields to win, or daring deed to do, Where Danube's swollen waters roll on to the tumbling brine, Where vineyards climb, and castles perch, along the storied Rhine, Where pleasures reign beside the Seine, in the merry land of France, Wherever swords together clash'd in red war's bloodiest chance, They fought; they fell ; their story tell, no alien sound it bears, One blood, one land, one heart, one hand, our honour leaps with theirs!
Then raise a stave to the gallant brave, the fighters and the free, Repeat their fame, their glory claim, 'twas won for you and me.
From English ships, on Irish lips, loud bid their praises flow, The gallant hearts, the faithful hearts, the men of long ago.
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