The Irish Priest’s Song Poem by John Banim

[Note: Air--``The Brown Irish Girl;'' Or, ``By the lake whose gloomy shore.'']

Men who for the land do toil,
Humble brethren of our soil,
Charms or spells we did not wind
O'er your independent mind;
Priestly frown, or bigot threat,
From your priests ye have not met;
True, we call'd ye forth--what then!
'Twas as brother--Irishmen!

By the love between us grown
At the desart's storm--blanch'd stone,
When, sore troubled and afraid,
There we knelt, and there we pray'd,--
By its memory, old and rare,
Since our straw--thatch'd house of prayer,
Of the rude hill part and prize,
On the rude hill dared arise--

By its great increase, since we
Rear'd our own sheds, lowlily,
Near, and like, and still, around,
No friends but each other found--
By the love such lot accords--
Bedside comforts, fireside words--
By that love, in Ireland's name,
We did call ye, and ye came!