Where Foyle her swelling waters
Rolls northward to the main,
Here, Queen of Erin’s daughters,
Fair Derry fixed her reign:
A holy temple crowned her,
And commerce graced her street,
A rampart wall was round her,
The river at her feet:
And here she sat alone, boys,
And looking from the hill,
Vow’d the Maiden on her throne, boys,
Would be a Maiden still.
From Antrim crossing over,
In famous eighty-eight,
A plumed and belted lover
Came to the Ferry Gate;
She summoned to defend her
Our sires—a beardless race—
They shouted, ‘No surrender!’
And slamm’d it in his face.
Then in a quiet tone, boys,
They told him ’twas their will
That the Maiden on her throne, boys,
Should be a Maiden still.
Next, crushing all before him,
A kingly wooer came
(The royal banner o’er him
Blushed crimson-deep for shame);
He showed the Pope’s commission,
Nor dreamed to be refused,
She pitied his condition,
But begged to stand excused.
In short, the fact is known, boys,
She chased him from the hill,
For the Maiden on her throne, boys,
Would be a Maiden still.
On our brave sires descending,
’Twas then the tempest broke,
Their peaceful dwellings rending
’Mid blood, and flame, and smoke.
That hallow’d graveyard yonder
Swells with the slaughtered dead—
O, brothers! pause and ponder,
It was for us they bled;
And while their gifts we own, boys—
The fane that tops our hill,
O, the Maiden on her throne, boys,
Shall be a Maiden still.
Nor wily tongue shall move us,
Nor tyrant arm affright,
We’ll look to One above us,
Who ne’er forsook the right;
Who will may crouch and tender
The birthright of the free,
But, brothers, ‘No surrender!’
No compromise for me!
We want no barrier stone, boys,
No gates to guard the hill,
Yet the Maiden on her throne, boys,
Shall be a Maiden still!
Charlotte Elizabeth Tonna.
