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222 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Old maxims these—yet stout and true —
They speak in trumpet tone, To do at once what is to do,
And trust ourselves alone. |
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Too long our Irish hearts we schooled
In patient hope to bide, By dreams of English justice fooled
And English tongues that lied. That hour of weak delusion's past —
The empty dream has flown : Our hope and strength, we find at last,
Is in ourselves alone. |
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Aye ! bitter hate or cold neglect,
Or lukewarm love at best, Is all we've found, or can expect,
We aliens of the West. No friend, beyond our own green shore,
Can Erin truly own ; Yet stronger is her trust, therefore,
In her brave sons alone. |
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Remember when our lot was worse —
Sunk, trampled to the dust — 'Twas long our weakness and our curse
In stranger aid to trust. And if, at length, we proudly trod
On bigot laws o'erthrown, Who won that struggle? Under God,
Ourselves—ourselves alone. |
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