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Show BALLAD OF THE IRISH RACE. (By C. Quinn.) Sing me the song of the swordsman born-Sons born-Sons of the isle in the western sea Set to the challenge of Congal's horn. Fraught with menace and kingly scorn, Cleaving the mists of battle born When shearing steel sets the red tide free. Swordsmen we of the warrior race. Hot on the scent when war trumps blow; Ours the joy of the grim death chase, With flying foemen to set the pace. When white fear grips them in stern embrace, em-brace, And vengeance rides at their saddlebow. saddle-bow. Sing me the sonpr of the rebel breed. Reddening the waves of the western sea; Theirs to nourish the golden seed Of deathless freedom by dauntless deed, For Krin ever to toil and bleed. And grandly perish to set her free. Rebels we of the fearless clan. Scornful under the tyrant's heel! Whips and gyves and penal ban Seem but part of the primal plan: Scourging ours, since the race began. But never dread of the conquerer's steel! Sing me the song of the fighting men. Fierce as the storms of the western sea; Sweeping down through the startled len Like lions wild from the blood-stained den. Till pealing echoes ring again With trumpet notes of the clansmen's glee! Soldiers we of the fighting race, Paladins of the tented Held: Never nook on the wide world's face But spreads to the stars our crimsoned trace. And bleaching bones of our dead find place By shivered falchion and war-worn shield. Chant me the lay of the kings of song, Sweet as winds of the western sea; Nor chilling blight of the ancient wrong. Nor gibbet's shadow, nor biting thong Can stifle the tide of golden song That flows as the wind goes chainless, free! Minstrels we of the barbie choir-Heritors choir-Heritors of the jrift divine: : Sons of kings of the rinsing lyre Who sang the song of the land's doslre, When chiefs caroused by the fir-log fire, And music flowed witli blood-red wine. Sing me the song of the saintly race,' Steadfast yea, as the western sea! Patrick's children in truth and grace. Choosing the stake in the market place. The headsman's axe and the gyve's embrace, em-brace, Or e'er to Baal they bend the knee. Martyrs we of the chosen band. Crowned with the stainless flowers of faith: Unafraid 'neath the vengeful brand, Each with a shamrock spray in hand. For Patrick's creed anel the dear green land -Singing we go down the ways of death. Sing me the song of the sons of kings, Bondsman born, by the western sea; Theirs to languish by alien springs, To croon the plaint that the exile sings, To sit afar 'neath freedom's wine3 And know that not yet their land is free. Princes we of the kingly strain. Matchless under heaven's blue dome; Masters of Saxon and Frank and Dane. Lords of the gold and the hoarded grain; Josephs, holding vicarious reign. Who may not rule in our island home! m am |