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Rh On her darkened path lie the corpses of men, with whose blood her feet are red; And the curses of ruined nations are a cloud above her head.

O Erin, fresh in the latest day, like a gem from a Syrian tomb, The burial clay of the centuries has saved thy light in the gloom.

Thy hands may stretch to a kindred world: there is none that hates but one; And she but hates as a pretext for the rapine she has done.

The night of thy grief is closing, and the sky in the East is red: Thy children watch from the mountain-tops for the sun to kiss thy head.

O Mother of men that are fit to be free, for their test for freedom borne. Thy vacant place in the Nations' race awaits but the coming morn!