That those who slaved and starved them Might spend their earnings then, And the Irish ruffians have a “good time,” And the English gentlemen.
And that’s why at the present moment That noble country of mine Is boiling with indignation At the memory of a “crime.”
For the Irish ruffians (they tell me), And it looks as if ’twere true, And the English gentlemen are so scarce, We could not spare those two!
In the chill grey summer dawn-light We pass through the empty streets; The rattling wheels are all silent; No friend his fellow greets.
Here and there, at the corners, A man in a great-coat stands; A bayonet hangs by his side, and A rifle is in his hands.
This is a conquered city; It speaks of war not peace; And that’s one of the English soldiers The English call “police.”
. . . I went the other day To see the birds and beasts they keep enmewed In the London Zoo. One of the first I saw— One of the first I noticed, was an eagle. Ragged, befouled, within his iron bars He sat without a movement or a sound, And, when I stood and pitying looked at him, I saw his great sad eyes that winkless gazed Out to the horizon sky. I passed from there, And walked about the gardens, hither and thither, Till all the afternoon was spent. Returning then To seek my home, again by chance I passed The eagle’s cage, and stood again, and looked, And saw his great sad eyes that winkless gazed Out to the horizon sky. So I went home . . . _The eagle is Ireland_!
O we have loved you through cold and rain And pitiless frost, Consuming our offering of blood and of brain Gladly again and again and again, Though it all seemed lost, Ireland, Ireland!
O we will fight, fight on for you till Your anguish is past, The wronged ones righted, the tyrants still.— Though God has not saved you, yet we will, At the last, at the last, Ireland, Ireland!
O we will love you in warmth and light And the happy day, When you have forgotten the terrible night, Standing proud and beautiful bright For ever and aye, Ireland, Ireland!
One thing we praise you for that is past praise— The dauntless eyes that faced the rain and night, The hand that never wearied in the fight, Till, through the dark’s despair, the dawn’s delays, It rose, that vision of forgotten days, Ireland, a nation in her right and might, As fearless of the lightning as the Light,— Freedom, the noon-tide sun that shines and stays! O brave, O pure, O hater of the wrong, (The wrong that is as one with England’s name, Tyranny with cant of liberty, and shame With boast of righteousness), to you belong Trust for the hate that blinds our foes like flame, Love for the hope that makes our hearts so strong!