Page:Irish minstrelsy, vol 2 - Hardiman.djvu/119

Rh But, while our hearts indignant bleed,
 * An hour may come,$3$ o'er Erin's plain,

To bid the inert and drooping steed
 * Bound with a warrior's weight again.

Our halls the stranger's tread resound,
 * Or glare white towers upon their site;

The plough hath past each hallowed mound,
 * Where sages weighed a nation's right.$4$

Proud Logha's isle no longer now—
 * 'Tis England all$5$—each taint and blot,

Her plains, her own free mountain's brow.
 * All blighted, sullied, and forgot.

The Gael no more their native place
 * Discern, in this degraded land;

Banba no more her sons can trace,$6$
 * In failing heart and feeble hand.

An alien race o'erruns her breast,
 * Endenizened by strange controul;

The stranger is no more her guest,
 * While exile wrings her children's soul.