Page:Songs, Legends, and Ballads.djvu/120

108 They sing in strange lands the sweet songs of their home,
 * Their emerald Zion enthroned in the billows;

To work, not to weep by the rivers they come:
 * Their harps are not hanged in despair on the willows.

The hope of the mother beats youthful and strong,
 * Responsive and true to her children's pulsations,

No petrified heart has she saved from the wrong—
 * Our Niobe lives for her place 'mong the nations!

Then drink, all her sons—be they Keltic or Danish,
 * Or Norman or Saxon—one mantle was o'er us;

Let race lines, and creed lines, and every line, vanish—
 * We drink as the Gael: "To the Mother that bore us!"