I am not of your blood;I never loved your ways:If e'er your deed was goodI yet was slow to praise.
Irish and rebel both,And both unto the end--And here I pledge you troth,And here I stand your friend.
This scrum that blights our fame,This mildew on our land--The murrain on their name:My spittle on their hand.
The gates of Hell assail:Look on yon stricken trench--There dies the loyal Gael:Let not your talkers blench.
