To Arms! shouts Freedom to her sons. Behold!

How, like Job's war-horse, they gulp down the ground

To battle! What care they how foes surround?

Oh, joy to Celts, nigh half the true and bold!

There, with the roar of all their wrongs uprolled

From ancient depths, they dash with billow-bound

Up rock and summit, and through cave and mound,

Spurning both Tyrants' steel and Treason's gold.

No tide are they to ebb in heart and spirit.

If dashed back, they return with all the force

Of six dark sea's momentum on its course

For vengeance on the vile, who disinherit

The human-being—shut off every source

Of happiness, or let but Serf's draw near it!