Copyright, 1887, by F. Harding.
God help the homeless ones to-night,
Who lie on Irish soil,
Where British red-coats ruthlessly
Their sacred homes despoil.
Where mothers bent aid worn with age
Are turned abroad to die,
While from a thousand breaking hearts,
There comes this wailing cry:
Torn from the home that has shelter'd us,
Home of our joys and tears,
Thrust from the hearth where the laugh and song
Gladden'd us many years.
Homeless we wander abroad to night,
Under the moonlit sky,
England may break the Irish heart,
But its spirit will never die.
See where the father clasps the babe
That cries aloud for bread.
See where the aged husband lands
In silence with his dead.
Upward he looks to the One above,
His snowy locks are bare,
And 'mid the sound of crumbling walls,
His voice rings thro' the air:-Chorus.
God help the homeless ones to-night
And give them strength and trust,
The world is with the Irish cause,
I Tho' trampled in the dust.
The struggles of a thousand years
Shall never be in vain,
And Ireland will no more have cause
To sing this mournful strain:-Chorus.