Page:The Spirit of the Nation.djvu/109

Rh One slave alone on earth you'll find Through Nature's universal span, So lost to virtue—dead to shame, The anti-Irish Irishman

Our fields are fertile, rich our floods, Our mountains bold, majestic, grand; Our air is balm, and every breeze Wings health around our native land. But who despises all her charms, And mocks her gifts where'er he can? Why, he, the Norman's sneaking slave, The anti-Irish Irishman.

The Norman—spawn of fraud and guile! Ambitious sought our peaceful shore, And, leagued with native guilt, despoiled, And deluged Erin's fields with gore! Who gave the foe-man footing here? What wretch unholy led her van? The prototype of modern slaves, An anti-Irish Irishman!

For ages rapine ruled our plains, And slaughter raised "his red right hand," And virgins shriek'd!—and roof-trees blaz'd! And desolation swept the land! And who would not those ills arrest, Or aid the patriotic plan To burst his country's galling chains? The anti-Irish Irishman!

But now too great for fetters grown, Too proud to bend a slavish knee, Loved Erin mocks the tyrant's thrall, And firmly vows she shall be free! But mark yon treacherous stealthy knave That bends beneath his country's ban; Nor let him dash a nation's hopes, The anti-Irish Irishman!