Thomas Davis Poems

Chisel the likeness of The Chief,
Not in gaiety, nor grief;
Change not by your art to stone,
Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan.
Dark her tale, and none can tell
Its fearful chronicle so well.
Her frame is bent-her wounds are deep
Who, like him, her woes can weep?
...

The mess-tent is full, and the glasses are set,
And the gallant Count Thomond is president yet;
The veteran stands, like an uplifted lance,
Crying-'Comrades, a health to the monarch of France! '
With bumpers and cheers they have done as he bade,
For King Louis is loved by the Irish Brigade.
...

A Nation's voice, a nation's voice
It is a solemn thing!
It bids the bondage-sick rejoice
'Tis stronger than a king.
...

There flows from her spirit such love and delight,
That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light
As the gleam from a homestead through darkness will show
Or the moon glimmer soft through the fast falling snow.
...

'Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy
Stepping the mountain statelily
Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet,
No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.
...

When, on Ramillies' bloody field,
The baffled French were forced to yield,
The victor Saxon backward reeled
Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons.
...

Let the coward shrink aside,
We'll have our own again;
Let the brawling slave deride
Here's for our own again!
...

Ireland! rejoice, and England! deplore
Faction and feud are passing away.
'Twas a low voice, but 'tis a loud roar,
'Orange and Green will carry the day.'
Orange! Orange!
Green and Orange!
Pitted together in many a fray
Lions in fight!
And linked in their might,
Orange and Green will carry the day.
Orange! Orange!
Green and Orange!
Wave them together o'er mountain and bay.
Orange and Green!
Our King and our Queen!
'Orange and Green will carry the day!'
...

Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh
Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh
Desmond feeds five hundred men a-day;
Yet, here's to O'Briain of Ara!
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar,
Down from the top of Camailte,
Clansman and kinsman are coming here
To give him the CEAD MILE FAILTE.
...

THE CHANT.

'Ululu! ululu! high on the wind,
There's a home for the slave where no fetters can bind.
Woe, woe to his slayers! '-comes wildly along,
...