Why play with words? There never can be peace

Till Ireland is set free. One might as well

Expect the great Arch-angel rest in Hell

And genuflect to Satan's blasphemies,

As Erin's spirit that, for centuries,

Has been aloft with God in virtue, sell,

Like Esaw, her birthright, and not rebel,

But to her home's invaders, bend her knees.

Her spirit is no norbury Banshee—

To wail and, then, to vanish. She will stand

With lifted flambeau, lighted by the hand

That lights the stars, till she again is free,

Inspiring normal man in every land

With love of Freedom, by her scorn of thee.