Then hurrah for the gallant old Dublin, boys, And if you wouldn't be muddlin', boys, Join a Volunteer corps, or, if that is a bore, The Citizen Army's as good, me boys. Then hurrah for the Volunteers, me boys, Ireland in arms has no fears, me boys, And surely if we would see Ireland free, We'll arm and we'll drill for the Day, me boys. CHORUS For the Germans are going to win, me boys, And Ireland will have to butt in, me boys, From a Gael with a gun the Briton will run, And we'll dance at the wake of the Empire, boys! Here is another satirical song, very popular just before and during the rising. The man who sung it, called Brian na Banba, was deported by the English after the rising: HARP OR LION? Neighbors, list and hear from me The wondrous news I've read to-day, Ireland's love of liberty 'Tis said is dead and passed away; Irish men have all grown wiser, Now they'll heed no ill adviser, They despise their country's story, All they love is England's glory-- Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! All they love is England's glory, Ha, ha, ha! Now we all must grieve to know The deep offense our fathers gave, Meeting men with thrust and blow That came to rob them and enslave; We should blush for their ill-doing, Give their errors no renewing, And, unlike those old transgressors, Never hurt our isle's oppressors-- Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Never hurt our isle's oppressors, Ha, ha, ha! Only think of Hugh O'Neill, Thundering down in furious style, To assail with lead and steel The rovers from our sister isle; Chiefs and clans in all directions With their far and near connections, Warriors bold and swift uprisers, Rushing on their civilizers-- Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! On their gracious civilizers, Ha, ha, ha! Surely, friends, the chance is great We'll cast a cloud on Emmet's fame, Scoff at Tone and '98, And scorn Lord Edward's honored name; Then, in quite a loyal manner, Clip and dye our old green banner, And, where hangs the harp of Brian, Place the mangy British lion-- Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! Place the mangy British lion, Ha, ha, ha! Surely, friends, it seems to me, England's self ere now should know, These are things she'll never see, Let Ireland's star be high or low; That's the truth, whoe'er denies it, Scouts it, flouts it, or decries it, Aids to spread a vile invention, Drawn from--where I will not mention! Ha, ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha! From the place 'tis wrong to mention, Ha, ha, ha! Another song, written to discourage recruiting for the English army in Ireland, goes thus: EIGHT MILLIONS OF ENGLISH MEN I