Hurrah for the vengeance of old Mullaghmast,
      On the blood-bolter’d ground where your gauntlet was cast;
      Hurrah for the vengeance of Tara’s proud hill,
      Where the bones of our monarchs are blood-sprinkled still. 
      Hurrah for Clontarf, though the Saxon may smile,
      The last, greatest triumph of Erin’s green isle!

      Let the scoffer scoff on, while I hereby proclaim,
      That flight may be courage, and fear but a name;
      That boasting is good, when ’tis good for the cause,
      But, in sight of cold steel, we should honour the laws;
      That powder and shot make men swallow their bile—­
      So, hurrah for the glory of Erin’s green isle!

If they ask for your leader, the land’s sword and shield, At least none can say that he fled from the field. He kept a whole skin—­for the service of Rome; So he fix’d his headquarters in quiet at home.  They might just as well hunt for the head of the Nile, While he reckon’d his beads for St Patrick’s green isle.

      If beggars on horseback will ride—­to Clontarf;
      If tailors will caper with truncheon and scarf,
      At Sunday carousels, all know, I’m in flower,
      My taste for the grape don’t extend to the shower. 
      Besides, those blue pills disagree with my chyle,
      So, hurrah!—­pence and peace for the grand Emerald Isle!

      If the scoffer should ask, what the deuce brought you there? 
      Of course, it was only to taste the fresh air;
      To pick cowslips and daisies; and brush off the dew,
      Or drink gin o’er the tombstone of Brian Boru. 
      As to flags, and all that; ’twas but doing in style,
      The honours of Freedom to Erin’s green isle.

      Then, as to your “Squadrons,” your “Mount for Repeal,”
      ’Twas merely to teach them the “Right about wheel,”
      By the word of command from the Saxon to run,
      As your leader would fly from a bailiff or dun;
      In short, since a miss is as good as a mile,
      Swear the whole was a humbug for Erin’s green isle.

      Besides, these are delicate moments to croak,
      Since the Saxon’s new plan of a word and a stroke. 
      My mind is made up, like a poodle or pug,
      No longer to stir from my berth on the rug;
      Though the bold may revile me, so let them revile—­
      I’m determined to live for old Erin’s green isle.

      I proclaim—­that the Saxon will tremble to meet
      The heroes of Erin; but, boys, life is sweet. 
      I proclaim—­that your shout frightens Europe’s base thrones;
      But remember, my boys, there is luck in whole bones;
      So, take the advice of a friend—­wait a while,
      In a century or two you’ll revenge the Green Isle.

      I know in my soul, at the very first shot