The heroes of Wexford have burst thro' their chains,
And the voice of the freeman is loud o'er the plains,
The Sasnachs are broken, their horse-men have fled,
And the pride of their host on the mountain lie dead.
For roused is the blood of the bold shilmaleer,
The pride of the conflict when the foemen are near;
And the heroes of Bargy and Bantry are there,
In the shock ever foremost, in flight in the rear.
Oh soon will the hearths of the traitors be lone,
And their halls but re-echo the shriek and the groan,
And the red flame shall burst thro' their roofs to the sky.
For the hour of our freedom and vengeance is nigh.
The men of the mountain are down in the vale,
And tho' gentle the Forth, yet their sons never slight,
For the mildest in peace are oft the the boldest in fight.
The cold-blooded Sasnach is low on the hill,
Like red rock he presses, as lone and as chill-
There pulseless and cold, the pale beams of the moon
Show the deep-riven breast of the fallen dragoon.
And low lies his charger, his bosom all torn,
And from the dark helmet the horse hair is shorn,
And the hearts of the great, and the brave and the proud,
Have been trampled in death when the battle was loud.
Oh! long in fair England each maiden may mourn-
The pride of her bosom will never return;
His heart's blood is scattered - his last prayer is said-
And the dark raven flaps his wild wings o'er the dead.
Yes, long she may call him from the battle in vain-
The sight of her lover she ne'er shall regain;
All cold is his bosom, and crimson his brow,
And the night wind is sighing its dirge o'er him now.