INGRAM
Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?Who blushes at the name?When cowards mock the patriot’s fate,Who hangs his head for shame?He’s all a knave or half a slave,Who slights his country thus;But a true man, like you, man,Will fill your glass with us.We drink the memory of the brave,The faithful and the few:Some lie far off beyond the wave,Some sleep in Ireland, too.All, all are gone; but still lives onThe fame of those who died;And true men, like you men,Remember them with pride.Some on the shores of distant landsTheir weary hearts have laid,And by the stranger’s heedless handsTheir lonely graves were made;But though their clay be far awayBeyond th’ Atlantic foam,In true men, like you, men,Their spirit’s still at home.The dust of some is Irish earth;Among their own they rest;And the same land that gave them birthHas caught them to her breast;And we will pray that from their clayFull many a race may startOf true men, like you, men,To act as brave a part.They rose in dark and evil daysTo right their native land;They kindled here a living blazeThat nothing shall withstand.Alas! that might can vanquish right—They fell and pass’d away;But true men, like you, men,Are plenty here to-day.Then here’s their memory! may it beFor us a guiding light,To cheer our strife for libertyAnd teach us to unite.Through good and ill, be Ireland’s still,Though sad as theirs your fate,And true men, be you, men,Like those of Ninety-Eight!John Kells Ingram.
Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?Who blushes at the name?When cowards mock the patriot’s fate,Who hangs his head for shame?He’s all a knave or half a slave,Who slights his country thus;But a true man, like you, man,Will fill your glass with us.We drink the memory of the brave,The faithful and the few:Some lie far off beyond the wave,Some sleep in Ireland, too.All, all are gone; but still lives onThe fame of those who died;And true men, like you men,Remember them with pride.Some on the shores of distant landsTheir weary hearts have laid,And by the stranger’s heedless handsTheir lonely graves were made;But though their clay be far awayBeyond th’ Atlantic foam,In true men, like you, men,Their spirit’s still at home.The dust of some is Irish earth;Among their own they rest;And the same land that gave them birthHas caught them to her breast;And we will pray that from their clayFull many a race may startOf true men, like you, men,To act as brave a part.They rose in dark and evil daysTo right their native land;They kindled here a living blazeThat nothing shall withstand.Alas! that might can vanquish right—They fell and pass’d away;But true men, like you, men,Are plenty here to-day.Then here’s their memory! may it beFor us a guiding light,To cheer our strife for libertyAnd teach us to unite.Through good and ill, be Ireland’s still,Though sad as theirs your fate,And true men, be you, men,Like those of Ninety-Eight!John Kells Ingram.
Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?Who blushes at the name?When cowards mock the patriot’s fate,Who hangs his head for shame?He’s all a knave or half a slave,Who slights his country thus;But a true man, like you, man,Will fill your glass with us.
We drink the memory of the brave,The faithful and the few:Some lie far off beyond the wave,Some sleep in Ireland, too.All, all are gone; but still lives onThe fame of those who died;And true men, like you men,Remember them with pride.
Some on the shores of distant landsTheir weary hearts have laid,And by the stranger’s heedless handsTheir lonely graves were made;But though their clay be far awayBeyond th’ Atlantic foam,In true men, like you, men,Their spirit’s still at home.
The dust of some is Irish earth;Among their own they rest;And the same land that gave them birthHas caught them to her breast;And we will pray that from their clayFull many a race may startOf true men, like you, men,To act as brave a part.
They rose in dark and evil daysTo right their native land;They kindled here a living blazeThat nothing shall withstand.Alas! that might can vanquish right—They fell and pass’d away;But true men, like you, men,Are plenty here to-day.
Then here’s their memory! may it beFor us a guiding light,To cheer our strife for libertyAnd teach us to unite.Through good and ill, be Ireland’s still,Though sad as theirs your fate,And true men, be you, men,Like those of Ninety-Eight!
John Kells Ingram.
Unhappy Erin, what a lot was thine!Half-conquer’d by a greedy robber band;Ill govern’d now with lax, now ruthless hand;Mislead by zealots, wresting laws divineTo sanction every dark or mad design;Lured by false lights of pseudo-patriot leagueThrough crooked paths of faction and intrigue;And drugg’d with selfish flattery’s poison’d wine.Yet, reading all thy mournful history,Thy children, with a mystic faith sublime,Turn to the future, confident that Fate,Become at last thy friend, reserves for thee,To be thy portion in the coming time,They know not what—but surely something great.John Kells Ingram.
Unhappy Erin, what a lot was thine!Half-conquer’d by a greedy robber band;Ill govern’d now with lax, now ruthless hand;Mislead by zealots, wresting laws divineTo sanction every dark or mad design;Lured by false lights of pseudo-patriot leagueThrough crooked paths of faction and intrigue;And drugg’d with selfish flattery’s poison’d wine.Yet, reading all thy mournful history,Thy children, with a mystic faith sublime,Turn to the future, confident that Fate,Become at last thy friend, reserves for thee,To be thy portion in the coming time,They know not what—but surely something great.John Kells Ingram.
Unhappy Erin, what a lot was thine!Half-conquer’d by a greedy robber band;Ill govern’d now with lax, now ruthless hand;Mislead by zealots, wresting laws divineTo sanction every dark or mad design;Lured by false lights of pseudo-patriot leagueThrough crooked paths of faction and intrigue;And drugg’d with selfish flattery’s poison’d wine.Yet, reading all thy mournful history,Thy children, with a mystic faith sublime,Turn to the future, confident that Fate,Become at last thy friend, reserves for thee,To be thy portion in the coming time,They know not what—but surely something great.
John Kells Ingram.