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IRISH MELODIES. |
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If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd with their rights, Give to country its charm, and to home its delights,
If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same. And oh ! may his tomb want a tear and a name, Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, • Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath,
For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!
Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find
That repose which, at home, they had sigh'd for in vain, Join, join in our hope that the flame which you light May be felt yet in Erin, as calm, and as bright, And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws, Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause
Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!
God prosper the cause!—oh, it cannot but thrive, While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,
Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain. Then, how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die ! The finger of Glory shall point where they lie; While, far from the footstep of coward or slave, The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave
Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain ! |
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