THE HARP OF THE NATION.
Air—"Molli a stór."
I.
Our ancient harp, whose voiceful string
The Saxon rent in twain,
To him shall fierce defiance fling
From minstrel hands again.
No strains for vulgar lordings vile
Shall to our harp belong—
To sweep oppression from our isle
Shall rush its sea of song!
II.
Our ancient harp shall blend its tone
With Erin's ancient tongue,
To sing how Saxon guile alone
Strong fetters o'er us flung;
Shall rouse to wrath our warrior-band
To shout the battle cry,
To sweep oppression from the land,
And burst its bonds—or die!
III.
Our ancient harp impell'd the brave
Where patriot bosoms bled—
Where Danish despots found a grave—
Where Rome's fierce eagle fled!—
Where the Invader bit the dust
On many a bloody plain,
And, by that Heaven in which we trust,
He'll bite the dust again!
