The prison-bound who rot in chains, the faithful dead who poured.
Their blood 'neath Strafford's lawless axe or Parson's ruffian sword.
VIII.
They smote them with the swearer's oath, and with the murderer's knife,
We in the open field will fight, fairly for land and life,
But by the Dead and all their wrongs, and by our hopes today,
One of us twain shall fight their last or be it we or they—
IX.
They banned our faith, they banned our lives, they trod us into earth,
And whilst we bore with passive hearts, our patience was their mirth;
Even this great flame that wraps them now, not we but they have bred,
This war is their own work, and now, their work be on their head.
X.
Nay, Father, tell us not of help from Leinster's Norman Peers.
If we shall shape our holy cause to match their selfish fears,
Helpless and hopeless be the cause that brooks a vain delay,
Our ship is launched, our flag's afloat, whether they come or stay.
XI.
If silken Howth, and savage Slane should kiss their tyrant's rod,
And pale Dunsany still prefer his Monarch to his God,
Think you we lack their fathers' sons the Marchmen of the Pale,
While Irish hearts and Irish hands have Spanish blades and mail?
