The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/Loud Shout the Flaming Tongues of War
LOUD SHOUT THE FLAMING TONGUES OF WAR
TA'N SIONAC AR SRAIDIB AG FAIRE GO CAOCRAC
Air—“The West's Asleep.”
Loud shout the flaming tongues of war.
The cannon's thunder rolls afar
While Empires tremble for their fall.
Thou art alone amongst them all.
Where is the friend who for thy sake
Will on his sword thy freedom take?
The son who holds thy right alone
Above an Empire or a throne?
Ah, Grannia Wael, thy stricken head
Is bowed in sorrow o'er thy dead,
Thy dead who died for love of thee,
Not for some foreign liberty.
Shall we betray when hope is near,
Our Motherland whom we hold dear,
To go to fight on foreign strand,
For foreign rights and foreign land?
The Lion's fangs have sought to kill
A Nation's soul, a Nation's will;
From tooth and claw thy wounded breast
Has held them safe, has held them blest.
About thy head great eagles are,
They fly with scream and storm of war,
Their shadows fall, we do not know
If they be friend,—if they be foe.
For Lion's roar we have no fears,
We fought him down the restless years.
We watch the Eagles in the sky,
Lest they should land—or pass us by.
But, yet beware! the Lion goes
To strike our friends—to charm our foes.
By hamlet small, by hill and dale
The creeping foe is on our trail;
His face is kind, his voice is bland,
He prates of faith and fatherland;
Shall we go forth to die and die
For Belgium's tear, and Serbia's sigh?
Oh, Volunteers, through field and town
He seeks his prey, he tracks thee down
His voice is soft, his words are fair,
It is the creeping foe, Beware!
Ah, Grannia Wael, in blood and tears
We fought thy battles through the years,
That thou shouldst live we're glad to die
In prison cell or gallows high.
Oh, cursed be he ! who to our shame
Drives forth thy manhood in thy name,
O, WHILE THE LION LAPS YOUR BLOOD
SHALL WE UNITE IN SERVITUDE.