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作曲 : Derek Warfield |
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Oh, not now for songs of a nation's wrongs, |
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Not the groans of starving labor; |
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Let the rifle ring and the bullet sing |
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To the clash of the flashing sabre! |
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There are Irish ranks on the tented banks |
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Of Columbia's guarded ocean; |
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And an iron clank from flank to flank |
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Tells of armed men in motion. |
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The Irish green shall again be seen |
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As our Irish fathers bore it, |
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A burning wind from the South behind, |
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And the Yankee rout before it! |
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And frank souls there clear true and bare |
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To all, as the steel beside them, |
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Can love or hate withe the strength of Fate, |
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Till the grave of the valiant hide them. |
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Each seems to be mailed Ard Righ, |
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Whose sword's avenging glory |
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Must light the fight and smite for Right, |
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Like Brian's in olden story! |
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The Irish green shall again be seen |
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As our Irish fathers bore it, |
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A burning wind from the South behind, |
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And the Yankee rout before it! |
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With pale affright and panic flight |
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Shall dastard Yankees base and hollow, |
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Hear a Celtic race, from their battle place, |
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Charge to the shout of "Faugh-a-ballaugh!" |
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By the sould above, by the land we love |
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Her tears bleeding patience |
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The sledge is wrought that shall smash to naught |
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The brazen liar of nations. |
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The Irish green shall again be seen |
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As our Irish fathers bore it, |
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A burning wind from the South behind, |
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And the Yankee rout before it! |
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The knaves that rest on Columbia's breast, |
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And the voice of true men stifle; |
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We'll exorcise from the rescued prize- |
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Our talisman, the rifle; |
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For a tyrant's life a bowie knife!- |
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Of Union knot dissolvers, |
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The best we ken are stalwart men, |
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Columbiads and revolvers! |
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The Irish green shall again be seen |
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As our Irish fathers bore it, |
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A burning wind from the South behind, |
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And the Yankee rout before it! |
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Rise, bleeding ghosts, to the Lord of Hosts |
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For judgement final and solemn; |
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Your fanatic horde to the edge of the sword |
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Is doomed line, square, and column! |
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O'Neil's red hand shall purge the land- |
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Rain a fire on men and cattle, |
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Till the Lincoln snakes in their own cold lakes |
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Plunge from the blaze of battle. |
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The Irish green shall again be seen |
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As our Irish fathers bore it, |
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A burning wind from the South behind, |
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And the Yankee rout before it! |
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Oh, not now for songs of a nation's wrongs, |
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Not the groans of starving labor; |
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Let the rifle ring and the bullet sing |
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To the clash of the flashing sabre! |
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The Irish green shall again be seen |
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As our Irish fathers bore it, |
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A burning wind from the South behind, |
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And the Yankee rout before it! |
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O'Neil's red hand shall purge the land- |
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Rain a fire on men and cattle, |
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Till the Lincoln snakes in their own cold lakes |
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Plunge from the blaze of battle. |
