Oh, not now for songs of a nation's wrongs,

not the groans of starving labor;

Let the rifle ring and the bullet sing

to the clash of the flashing sabre!

There are Irish ranks on the tented banks

of Columbia's guarded ocean;

And an iron clank from flank to flank

tells of armed men in motion.

And frank souls there clear true and bare

To all, as the steel beside them,

Can love or hate withe the strength of Fate,

Till the grave of the valiant hide them.

Each seems to be mailed Ard Righ,

whose sword's avenging glory

Must light the fight and smite for Right,

Like Brian's in olden story!

With pale affright and panic flight

Shall dastard Yankees base and hollow,

Hear a Celtic race, from their battle place,

Charge to the shout of "Faugh-a-ballaugh!"

By the sould above, by the land we love

Her tears bleeding patience

The sledge is wrought that shall smash to naught

The brazen liar of nations.

The Irish green shall again be seen

as our Irish fathers bore it,

A burning wind from the South behind,

and the Yankee rout before it!

O'Neil's red hand shall purge the land-

Rain a fire on men and cattle,

Till the Lincoln snakes in their own cold lakes

Plunge from the blaze of battle.

The knaves that rest on Columbia's breast,

and the voice of true men stifle;

we'll exorcise from the rescued prize-

Our talisman, the rifle;

For a tyrant's life a bowie knife!-

Of Union knot dissolvers,

The best we ken are stalwart men,

Columbiads and revolvers!

Whoe'er shall march by triumphal arch

Whoe'er may swell the slaughter,

Our drums shall roll from the Capitol

O'er Potomac's fateful water!

Rise, bleeding ghosts, to the Lord of Hosts

For judgement final and solemn;

Your fanatic horde to the edge of the sword

Is doomed line, square, and column!