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By our prophets God is speaking, in Sinai's awful thunders,

By pestilence and famine, in fearful signs and wonders;

By our great poet-priesthood, the sacred race immortal,

Whose words go forth triumphant, as through a golden portal;

By our patriots and martyrs, who, for Freedom's holy law,

Have hearts to dare, a hand to burn, like Mutius Scævola.

Then, courage, Brothers! lock your shields, like the old Spartan band,

Advance! and be your watchword ever—God for Ireland!

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MINE eye is dull, my hair is white,

This arm is powerless for the fight,

Alas! alas! the battle's van

Suits not a weak and aged man.

Thine eye is bright, thine arm is strong—

'Tis Youth must right our country's wrong.

Arise, my son, and proudly bear

This sword that I was wont to wear;

Firm grasp the hilt, fling down the sheath—

A thousand years their wrongs bequeath

To thy young heart, thy hot revenge—

Kneel down, and swear thou wilt avenge.

May thy hand be fierce as Até's,