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O'DONNELL.
Unmeasured plaudits greet thy name, good chief!
Where'er old Erin's sons the sound shall hear,
Where'er the scoffer's taunt—the doubter's fear-
Would damp the order of the fixed belief
That nations fall to rise. For holding still
The tenor of thy sire's unswerving course—
The widened current forceful as the source-
Dost thou not show how great the strength of will
When honour and the patriot's fires remain?
Best vindicator of an exiled line!
For thee two lands, not last of Europe, twine
The laurelled crown. Thy gifts to Spain—
Strength, freedom, order, and a worthier sway;
And Ireland owes—the reflex of thy honour's ray!
