Look! British fury that, barraging, lights

Up Irish skies, like pathways down to hell,

Doubles its fire to reach our land as well,

Where Freedom's Wardens cry from justice' heights:

"'Tis Deicide to murder Human Rights.

Stop foul God-slaughter where to not rebel,

In order to develop and excel,

Were God in man, succumbed to age-longed blights."

Where Heavenward rose the God in man of old,

Staunch stand these Wardens. Sleepless, they behold

Each turn of England's Evil Eye. They call,

When she would form the fulminate of gold,

A thumb and finger-pinch of which, let fall,

Might blast Columbia's peaks to slit of thrall.