Thomas Moore

From “Irish Melodies”. 68. Where Is the Slave

          OH, where’s the slave so lowly,
          Condemn’d to chains unholy,
                Who, could he burst
                His bonds at first,
          Would pine beneath them slowly?
          What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
          Would wait till time decay’d it,
                When thus its wing
                At once may spring
          To the throne of Him who made it?

          Farewell, Erin, — farewell, all,
          Who live to weep our fall!

          Less dear the laurel growing,
          Alive, untouch’d and blowing,
                Than that whose braid
                Is pluckd to shade
          The brows with victory glowing.
          We tread the land that bore us,
          Her green flag glitters o’er us,
                The friends we’ve tried
                Are by our side,
          And the foe we hate before us.

          Farewell, Erin, — farewell, all,
          Who live to weep our fall!