 | The Poems of Thomas Davis |  |
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“The elements of Irish Nationality are not only combining—in
fact, they are growing confluent in our minds. Such nationality as
merits a good man's help, and awakens a true man's ambition,—such
nationality as could stand against internal faction and foreign intrigue,
—such nationality as would make the Irish hearth happy, and the
Irish name illustrious, is becoming understood. It must contain and
represent all the races of Ireland. It must not be Celtic; it must not
be Saxon; it must be Irish. The Brehon law, and the maxims of
Westminster;—the cloudy and lightning genius of the Gael, the placid
strength of the Sacsanach, the marshalling insight of the Norman;—a
Literature which shall exhibit in combination the passions and idioms
of all, and which shall equally express our mind, in its romantic, its
religious, its forensic, and its practical tendencies;—finally, a native
government, which shall know and rule by the might and right of all,
yet yield to the arrogance of none;—these are the components of such
a nationality.”—Davis's Essays.
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“It is not a gambling fortune, made at imperial play, Ireland wants
it is the pious and stern cultivation of her faculties and her virtues, the
acquisition of faithful and exact habits, and the self-respect that rewards
a dutiful and sincere life. To get her peasants into snug homesteads,
with well-tilled fields and placid hearths,—to develope the ingenuity
of her artists, and the docile industry of her artisans,—to make
for her own instruction a literature wherein our climate, history, and
passions shall breathe,—to gain conscious strength and integrity, and
the high post of holy freedom;—these are Ireland's wants.”
Davis's Essays
35
II. PART II. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS AND BALLADS.
36
“The greatest achievement of the Irish people is their music. It
tells their history, climate, and character; but it too much loves to
weep. Let us, when so many of our chains have been broken,—while
our strength is great, and our hopes high,—cultivate its bolder strains
—its raging and rejoicing; or if we weep, let it be like men whose
eyes are lifted, though their tears fall.
“Music is the first faculty of the Irish; and scarcely anything has such power for good over them. The use of this faculty and this
power, publicly and constantly, to keep up their spirits, refine their
tastes, warm their courage, increase their union, and renew their zeal,
—is the duty of every patriot.”—
Davis's Essays.
37
THE LOST PATH.
I
Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,All comfort else has flown;
For every hope was false to me,
And here I am, alone.
What thoughts were mine in early youth!
Like some old Irish song,
Brimful of love, and life, and truth,
My spirit gushed along.
II
I hoped to right my native isle,I hoped a soldier's fame,
I hoped to rest in woman's smile,
And win a minstrel's name—
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No laurels press my brow,
I have no woman's heart or hand,
Nor minstrel honours now.
III
But fancy has a magic power,It brings me wreath and crown,
And woman's love, the self-same hour
It smites oppression down.
Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,
I have no joy beside;
Oh! throng around, and be to me
Power, country, fame, and bride.
LOVE'S LONGINGS.
I
To the conqueror his crowning,First freedom to the slave,
And air unto the drowning,
Sunk in the ocean's wave—
And succour to the faithful,
Who fight their flag above,
Are sweet, but far less grateful
Than were my lady's love.
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II
I know I am not worthyOf one so young and bright;
And yet I would do for thee
Far more than others might;
I cannot give you pomp or gold,
If you should be my wife,
But I can give you love untold,
And true in death or life.
III
Methinks that there are passionsWithin that heaving breast
To scorn their heartless fashions,
And wed whom you love best.
Methinks you would be prouder
As the struggling patriot's bride,
Than if rank your home should crowd, or
Cold riches round you glide.
IV
Oh! the watcher longs for morning,And the infant cries for light,
And the saint for heaven's warning,
And the vanquished pray for might;
But their prayer, when lowest kneeling,
And their suppliance most true,
Are cold to the appealing
Of this longing heart to you.
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HOPE DEFERRED.
I
'Tis long since we were forced to part, at least it seems so to my grief,For sorrow wearies us like time, but ah! it brings not time's relief;
As in our days of tenderness, before me still she seems to glide;
And, though my arms are wide as then, yet she will not abide.
The day-light and the star-light shine, as if her eyes were in their light,
And, whispering in the panting breeze, her love-songs come at lonely night;
While, far away with those less dear, she tries to hide her grief in vain,
For, kind to all while true to me, it pains her to give pain.
II
I know she never spoke her love, she never breathed a single vow,And yet I'm sure she loved me then, and still doats on me now;
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And oft she said she'd be most happy as a poor man's bride;
I toiled to win a pleasant home, and make it ready by the spring;
The spring is past—what season now my girl unto our home will bring?
I'm sick and weary, very weary—watching, morning, night, and noon;
How long you're coming—I am dying—will you not come soon?
EIBHLIN A RUIN
I
When I am far away,Eibhlín a rúin,
Be gayest of the gay,
Eibhlín a rúin,
Too dear your happiness,
For me to wish it less—
Love has no selfishness,
Eibhlín a rúin.
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II
And it must be our pride,Eibhlín a rúin,
Our trusting hearts to hide,
Eibhlín a rúin,
They wish our love to blight,
We'll wait for Fortune's light—
The flowers close up at night,
Eibhlín a rúin.
III
And when we meet alone,Eibhlín a rúin,
Upon my bosom thrown,
Eibhlín a rúin,
That hour, with light bedecked,
Shall cheer us and direct,
A beacon to the wrecked,
Eibhlín a rúin.
IV
Fortune, thus sought, will come,Eibhlín a rúin,
We'll win a happy home,
Eibhlín a rúin,
And, as it slowly rose,
'Twill tranquilly repose,
A rock 'mid melting snows,
Eibhlín a rúin.
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THE BANKS OF THE LEE.
I
Oh! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee,And love in a cottage for Mary and me;
There's not in the land a lovelier tide,
And I'm sure that there's no one so fair as my bride.
She's modest and meek,
There's a down on her cheek,
And her skin is as sleek
As a butterfly's wing—
Then her step would scarce show
On the fresh-fallen snow,
And her whisper is low,
But as clear as the spring.
Oh! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee,
And love in a cottage for Mary and me,
I know not how love is happy elsewhere,
I know not how any but lovers are there!
II
Oh! so green is the grass, so clear is the stream,So mild is the mist, and so rich is the beam,
That beauty should ne'er to other lands roam,
But make on the banks of the river its home.
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The roses peep through,
'Tis to look in at you
They are growing so fast;
While the scent of the flowers
Must be hoarded for hours,
'Tis poured in such showers
When my Mary goes past.
Oh! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee,
And love in a cottage for Mary and me—
Oh, Mary for me—oh, Mary for me!
And 'tis little I'd sigh for the banks of the Lee!
THE GIRL OF DUNBWY.
I
'Tis pretty to see the girl of DunbwyStepping the mountain statelily—
Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet,
No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.
II
Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies—Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of her eyes;
The child of a peasant—yet England's proud Queen
Has less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien.
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III
Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as ifA breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff—
And love, and devotion, and energy speak
From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-pale cheek.
IV
But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip,And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip,
And her form and her step, like the reed-deer's, go past—
As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast.
V
I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye,And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by;
The saint of the wayside—she granted my prayer,
Though we spoke not a word, for her mother was there.
VI
I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills,But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills;
And I whisper her softly, “again, love, we'll meet,
And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet.”
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DUTY AND LOVE
I
Oh! lady, think not that my heart has grown cold,If I woo not as once I could woo;
Though sorrow has bruised it, and long years have-rolled,
It still doats on beauty and you:
And were I to yield to its inmost desire,
I would labour by night and by day,
Till I won you to flee from the home of your sire,
To live with your love far away.
II
But it is that my country's in bondage, and IHave sworn to shatter her chains!
By my duty and oath I must do it or lie
A corse on her desolate plains;
Then, sure, dearest maiden, 'twere sinful to sue,
And crueller far to win,
But, should victory smile on my banner, to you
I shall fly without sorrow or sin.
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ANNIE DEAR.
I
Our mountain brooks were rushing,Annie, dear,
The Autumn eve was flushing,
Annie, dear;
But brighter was your blushing,
When first, your murmurs hushing,
I told my love outgushing,
Annie, dear.
II
Ah! but our hopes were splendid,Annie, dear,
How sadly they have ended,
Annie, dear;
The ring betwixt us broken,
When our vows of love were spoken,
Of your poor heart was a token,
Annie, dear.
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III
The primrose flowers were shining,Annie, dear,
When, on my breast reclining,
Annie, dear!
Began our Mi-na-meala,
And many a month did follow
Of joy—but life is hollow,
Annie, dear.
IV
For once, when home returning,Annie, dear,
I found our cottage burning,
Annie, dear;
Around it were the yeomen,
Of every ill an omen,
The country's bitter foemen,
Annie, dear.
V
But why arose a morrow,Annie, dear,
Upon that night of sorrow,
Annie, dear?
Far better, by thee lying,
Their bayonets defying,
Than live an exile sighing,
Annie, dear.
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BLIND MARY.
I
There flows from her spirit such love and delight,That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light—
As the gleam from a homestead through darkness will show,
Or the moon glimmer soft through the fast falling snow.
II
Yet there's a keen sorrow comes o'er her at times,As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes;
And she talks of the sunset, like parting of friends,
And the starlight, as love, that nor changes nor ends.
III
Ah! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun,For the mountains that tower, or the rivers that run—
For beauty and grandeur, and glory, and light,
Are seen by the spirit, and not by the sight.
IV
In vain for the thoughtless are sunburst and shade,In vain for the heartless flowers blossom and fade;
While the darkness that seems your sweet being to bound
Is one of the guardians, an Eden around!
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THE BRIDE OF MALLOW.
I
'Twas dying they thought her,And kindly they brought her
To the banks of Blackwater,
Where her forefathers lie;
'Twas the place of her childhood,
And they hoped that its wild wood,
And air soft and mild would
Soothe her spirit to die.
II
But she met on its borderA lad who adored her—
No rich man, nor lord, or
A coward, or slave;
But one who had worn
A green coat, and borne
A pike from Slieve Mourne,
With the patriots brave.
III
Oh! the banks of the stream areThan emeralds greener:
And how should they wean her
From loving the earth?
While the song-birds so sweet,
And the waves at their feet,
And each young pair they meet,
Are all flushing with mirth.
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IV
And she listed his talk,And he shared in her walk—
And how could she baulk
One so gallant and true?
But why tell the rest?
Her love she confest,
And sunk on his breast,
Like the eventide dew.
V
Ah! now her cheek glowsWith the tint of the rose,
And her healthful blood flows,
Just as fresh as the stream;
And her eye flashes bright,
And her footstep is light,
And sickness and blight
Fled away like a dream.
VI
And soon by his sideShe kneels a sweet bride,
In maidenly pride
And maidenly fears;
And their children were fair,
And their home knew no care,
Save that all homestcads were
Not as happy as theirs.
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THE WELCOME.
I
Come in the evening, or come in the morning,Come when you're looked for, or come without warning,
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you.
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted,
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, “true lovers! don't sever.”
II
I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them;Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom.
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you;
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you.
Oh! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer,
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armour;
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me,
Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me.
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III
We'll look through the trees at the cliff, and the eyrie,We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy,
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river,
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her.
Oh! she'll whisper you, “Love as unchangeably beaming,
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming,
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver,
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river.”
IV
So come in the evening, or come in the morning,Come when you're looked for, or come without warning,
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you!
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted,
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, “true lovers! don't sever!”
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THE MI-NA-MEALA.
I
Like the rising of the sun,Herald of bright hours to follow,
Lo! the marriage rites are done,
And begun the Mi-na-meala.
II
Heart to heart, and hand to hand,Vowed 'fore God to love and cherish,
Each by each in grief to stand,
Never more apart to flourish.
III
Now their lips, low whisp'ring, speakThoughts their eyes have long been saying,
Softly bright, and richly meek,
As seraphs first their wings essaying.
IV
Deeply, wildly, warmly, love—'Tis a heaven-sent enjoyment,
Lifting up our thoughts above
Selfish aims and cold employment.
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V
Yet, remember, passion wanes,Romance is parent to dejection;
Nought our happiness sustains
But thoughtful care and firm affection.
VI
When the Mi-na-meala's flown,Sterner duties surely need you;
Do their bidding,—'tis love's own,—
Faithful love will say God speed you.
VII
Guard her comfort as 'tis worth,Pray to God to look down on her;
And swift as cannon-shot go forth
To strive for freedom, truth, and honour.
VIII
Oft recall—and never swerve—Your children's love and her's will follow;
Guard your home, and there preserve
For you an endless Mi-na-meala.
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MAIRE BHAN A STOIR.
I
In a valley, far away,With my Máire bhán a stóir,
Short would be the summer-day,
Ever loving more and more;
Winter-days would all grow long,
With the light her heart would pour,
With her kisses and her song,
And her loving maith go leór.
Fond is Máire bhán a stóir,
Fair is Máire bhán a stóir,
Sweet as ripple on the shore,
Sings my Máire bhán a stóir.
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II
Oh! her sire is very proud,And her mother cold as stone;
But her brother bravely vowed
She should be my bride alone;
For he knew I loved her well,
And he knew she loved me too,
So he sought their pride to quell,
But 'twas all in vain to sue.
True is Máire bhán a stóir,
Tried is Máire bhán a stóir,
Had I wings I'd never soar,
From my Máire bhán a stóir.
III
There are lands where manly toilSurely reaps the crop it sows,
Glorious woods and teeming soil,
Where the broad Missouri flows;
Through the trees the smoke shall rise,
From our hearth with maith go leór,
There shall shine the happy eyes
Of my Máire bhán a stóir.
Mild is Máire bhán a stóir,
Mine is Máire bhán a stóir,
Saints will watch about the door
Of my Máire bhán a stóir.
Which means, “fair Mary my treasure.” If we are to write gibberish to enable some of our readers to pronounce this, we must do so thus, Maur-ya vaun asthore, and pretty looking stuff it is. Really it is time for the inhabitants of Ireland to learn Irish.—Author's Note.
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OH! THE MARRIAGE.
I
Oh! the marriage, the marriage,With love and mo bhuachaill for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage
Might envy my marriage to me;
For Eoghan is straight as a tower,
And tender and loving and true,
He told me more love in an hour
Than the Squires of the county could do.
Then, Oh! the marriage, &c.
II
His hair is a shower of soft gold,His eye is as clear as the day,
His conscience and vote were unsold
When others were carried away;
His word is as good as an oath,
And freely 'twas given to me;
Oh! sure 'twill be happy for both
The day of our marriage to see.
Then, Oh! the marriage, &c.
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III
His kinsmen are honest and kind,The neighbours think much of his skill,
And Eoghan's the lad to my mind,
Though he owns neither castle nor mill.
But he has a tilloch of land,
A horse, and a stocking of coin,
A foot for the dance, and a hand
In the cause of his country to join.
Then, Oh! the marriage, &c.
IV
We meet in the market and fair—We meet in the morning and night—
He sits on the half of my chair,
And my people are wild with delight.
Yet I long through the winter to skim,
Though Eoghan longs more I can see,
When I will be married to him,
And he will be married to me.
Then, Oh! the marriage, the marriage,
With love and mo bhuachaill for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage,
Might envy my marriage to me.
With love and mo bhuachaill for me,
The ladies that ride in a carriage,
Might envy my marriage to me.
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A PLEA FOR LOVE.
I
The summer brook flows in the bed,The winter torrent tore asunder;
The sky-lark's gentle wings are spread,
Where walk the lightning and the thunder:
And thus you'll find the sternest soul
The gayest tenderness concealing;
And minds, that seem to mock control,
Are ordered by some fairy feeling.
II
Then, maiden! start not from the handThat's hardened by the swaying sabre—
The pulse beneath may be as bland
As evening after day of labour:
And, maiden! start not from the brow
That thought has knit, and passion darkened—
In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough,
The tenderest tales are often hearkened.
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THE BISHOP'S DAUGHTER.
I
Killala's halls are proud and fair;Tyrawley's hills are cold and bare;
Yet, in the palace, you were sad,
While, here, your heart is safe and glad.
II
No satin couch, no maiden train,Are here to soothe each passing pain;
Yet lay your head my breast upon,—
'Twill turn to down for you, sweet one!
III
Your father's halls are rich and fair,And plain the home you've come to share;
But happy love's a fairy king,
And sheds a grace on every thing.
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THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE.
I
His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,His love is rich to me;
I could not in a palace find
A truer heart than he.
The eagle shelters not his nest
From hurricane and hail,
More bravely than he guards my breast—
The Boatman of Kinsale.
II
The wind that round the Fastnet sweepsIs not a whit more pure—
The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps
Has not a foot more sure.
No firmer hand nor freer eye
E'er faced an Autumn gale—
De Courcy's heart is not so high—
The Boatman of Kinsale.
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III
The brawling squires may heed him not,The dainty stranger sneer—
But who will dare to hurt our cot,
When Myles O'Hea is here.
The scarlet soldiers pass along—
They'd like, but fear to rail—
His blood is hot, his blow is strong—
The Boatman of Kinsale.
IV
His hooker's in the Scilly van,When seines are in the foam;
But money never made the man,
Nor wealth a happy home.
So, blest with love and liberty,
While he can trim a sail,
He'll trust in God, and cling to me—
The Boatman of Kinsale.
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DARLING NELL.
I
Why should not I take her unto my heart?She has not a morsel of guile or art;
Why should not I make her my happy wife,
And love her and cherish her all my life?
I've met with a few of as shining eyes,
I've met with a hundred of wilder sighs,
I think I met some whom I loved as well—
But none who loved me like my Darling Nell.
II
She's ready to cry when I seem unkind,But she smothers her grief within her mind;
And when my spirit is soft and fond,
She sparkles the brightest of stars beyond.
Oh! 'twould teach the thrushes to hear her sing,
And her sorrow the heart of a rock would wring;
There never was saint but would leave his cell,
If he thought he could marry my Darling Nell!
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LOVE CHAUNT.
I
I think I've looked on eyes that shoneWith equal splendour,
And some, but they are dimmed and gone,
As wildly tender.
I never looked on eyes that shed
Such home-light mingled with such beauty,—
That 'mid all lights and shadows said,
“I love and trust and will be true to ye.”
II
I've seen some lips almost as red,A form as stately;
And some such beauty turned my head
Not very lately.
But not till now I've seen a girl
With form so proud, lips so delicious,
With hair like night, and teeth of pearl,—
Who was not haughty and capricious.
III
Oh, fairer than the dawn of dayOn Erne's islands!
Oh, purer than the thorn spray
In Bantry's highlands!
In sleep such visions crossed my view,
And when I woke the phantom faded;
But now I find the fancy true,
And fairer than the vision made it.
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A CHRISTMAS SCENE;
OR, LOVE IN THE COUNTRY.
I
The hill blast comes howling through leaf-rifted trees,That late were as harp-strings to each gentle breeze;
The strangers and cousins and every one flown,
While we sit happy-hearted—together—alone.
II
Some are off to the mountain, and some to the fair,The snow is on their cheek, on mine your black hair;
Papa with his farming is busy to-day,
And mamma's too good-natured to ramble this way.
III
The girls are gone—are they not?—into town,To fetch bows and bonnets, perchance a beau, down;
Ah! tell them, dear Kate, 'tis not fair to coquette—
Though you, you bold lassie, are fond of it yet!
IV
You're not—do you say?—just remember last night,You gave Harry a rose, and you dubbed him your knight;
Poor lad! if he loved you—but no, darling! no,
You're too thoughtful and good to fret any one so.
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V
The painters are raving of light and of shade,And Harry, the poet, of lake, hill, and glade;
While the light of your eye, and your soft wavy form
Suit a proser like me, by the hearth bright and warm.
VI
The snow on those hills is uncommonly grand,But, you know, Kate, it's not half so white as your hand;
And say what you will of the grey Christmas sky,
Still I slightly prefer my dark girl's grey eye.
VII
Be quiet, and sing me “The Bonny Cuckoo,”For it bids us the summer and winter love through,—
And then I'll read out an old ballad that shews
How Tyranny perished, and Liberty rose.
VIII
My Kate! I'm so happy, your voice whispers soft,And your cheek flushes wilder from kissing so oft;
For town or for country, for mountains or farms,
What care I?—My darling's entwined in my arms.
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THE INVOCATION.
I
Bright fairies by Glengariff's bay,Soft woods that o'er Killarney sway,
Bold echoes born in Céim-an-eich,
Your kinsman's greeting hear!
He asks you, by old friendship's name,
By all the rights that minstrels claim,
For Erin's joy and Desmond's fame,
Be kind to Fanny dear!
II
Her eyes are darker than Dunloe,Her soul is whiter than the snow,
Her tresses like arbutus flow,
Her step like frighted deer:
Then, still thy waves, capricious lake!
And ceaseless, soft winds, round her wake,
Yet never bring a cloud to break
The smile of Fanny dear!
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III
Oh! let her see the trance-bound men,And kiss the red deer in his den,
And spy from out a hazel glen
O'Donoghue appear;—
Or, should she roam by wild Dunbwy,
Oh! send the maiden to her knee,
I sung whilome, —but then, ah! me,
I knew not Fanny dear!
IV
Old Mangerton! thine eagles plume—Dear Innisfallen! brighter bloom—
And Mucruss! whisper thro' the gloom
Quaint legends to her ear;
Till strong as ash-tree in its pride,
And gay as sunbeam on the tide,
We welcome back to Liffey's side,
Our brightest, Fanny dear.
68
LOVE AND WAR.
I
How soft is the moon on Glengariff!The rocks seem to melt with the light;
Oh! would I were there with dear Fanny,
To tell her that love is as bright;
And nobly the sun of July
O'er the waters of Adragoole shines—
Oh! would that I saw the green banner
Blaze there over conquering lines.
II
Oh! love is more fair than the moonlight,And glory more grand than the sun;
And there is no rest for a brave heart,
Till its bride and its laurels are won;
But next to the burst of our banner,
And the smile of dear Fanny, I crave
The moon on the rocks of Glengariff—
The sun upon Adragoole's wave.
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MY LAND.
I
She is a rich and rare land;Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land—
This native land of mine.
II
No men than her's are braver—Her women's hearts ne'er waver;
I'd freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.
III
She's not a dull or cold land;No! she's a warm and bold land;
Oh! she's a true and old land—
This native land of mine.
IV
Could beauty ever guard her,And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border—
No friend within it pine!
V
Oh, she's a fresh and fair land;Oh, she's a true and rare land!
Yes, she's a rare and fair land—
This native land of mine.
70
THE RIGHT ROAD.
I
Let the feeble-hearted pine,Let the sickly spirit whine,
But work and win be thine,
While you've life.
God smiles upon the bold—
So, when your flag's unrolled,
Bear it bravely till you're cold
In the strife.
II
If to rank or fame you soar,Out your spirit frankly pour—
Men will serve you and adore,
Like a king.
Woo your girl with honest pride,
Till you've won her for your bride—
Then to her, through time and tide,
Ever cling.
III
Never under wrongs despair;Labour long, and everywhere,
Link your countrymen, prepare,
And strike home.
Thus have great men ever wrought,
Thus must greatness still be sought,
Thus laboured, loved, and fought
Greece and Rome.
| The Poems of Thomas Davis | |