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 on The fame of those who died; And true men, like you men, Remember them with pride. Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger’s heedless hands Their lonely graves were made; But though their clay be far away Beyond 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 birth Has caught them to her breast; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part. They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land; They kindled here a living blaze That 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 be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty And 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._ CLXXXI NATIONAL PRESAGE 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 divine To sanction every dark or mad design; Lured by false lights of pseudo-patriot league Through 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._ SIGERSON CLXXXII THE FLIGHT OF THE EARLS (_From the Irish_) Lo, our land this night is lone! Hear ye not sad Erin’s moan? Maidens weep and true men sorrow, Lone the Brave Race night and morrow. Lone this night is Fola’s plain,-- Though the foemen swarm amain-- Far from Erin, generous-hearted, Far her Flower of Sons is parted. Great the hardship! great the grief! Ulster wails Tirconaill’s Chief, From Emain west to Assarue Wails gallant, gentle, generous Hugh. Children’s joy no more rejoices,-- Fetters silence Song’s sweet voices-- Change upon our chiefs, alas! Bare the altar, banned the Mass.