“We have bent and borne, though we saw him torn from his home by the tyrant's crew —
And we bent and bore, when he came once more, though suffering had pierced him through:
And now he is laid beyond our aid, because to Ireland true —
A martyred man — the tyrant's ban, the pious patriot slew.
“And shall we bear and bend for ever,
And shall no time our bondage sever
And shall we kneel, but battle never,
“For our own soil?
“And shall our tyrants safely reign
On thrones built up of slaves and slain,
And nought to us and ours remain
“But chains and toil?
“No! round this grave our oath we plight,
To watch, and labour, and unite,
Till banded be the nation's might —
“Its spirit steeled,
“And then, collecting all our force,
We'll cross oppression in its course,
And die — or all our rights enforce,
“On battle field.”
Like an ebbing sea that will come again,
Slowly retired that host of men;
Methinks they'll keep some other day
The oath they swore on the martyr's clay.