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Lay our weary heads to rest upon the stone;

But ever in our visions, low and faintly,

Come the voices of the far-off angel band,

To earnest souls, in prophecy all saintly,

That the good cause will yet triumph in the land.

Fear not, oh! my brother, then, that any

Will hush Ierne's harp at man's command;

For phylacteries of misery too many,

Are bound upon all foreheads in the land.

Let others bow in abject genuflexion—

Sue from Pity what they ought to claim as right; By God's grace we'll stand by our election— Freedom, Knowledge, Independence, Truth, and Light!

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WHEN mighty passions, surging, heave the depth of life's great ocean—

When the people sway, like forest trees, to and fro in wild commotion—

When the world-old kingdoms, rent and riven, quiver in their place,

As the human central fire is upheaving at their base,

And throbbing hearts, and flashing eyes, speak a language deep and cryptic;

Yet he who runs may read aright these signs apocalyptic: