"And will not our hearts pulse triumphantly dance,
When the Major, the gallant, the graceful, the brave,6
With his chivalrous comrades shall fearless advance
A tyrant to crush—and a country to save!—
Where art thou our Charles! ah, linger no more,
One flash of thy sword—and our foes shall retire;
A clang of thy trumpet once heard on our shore,—
And we'll start to thy wedding with Sheela na Guire.
"The spring flowers are budding—the blossoms look gay
But the winter of tyranny never departs;
The birds warble sweet from each feathery spray,
But 'tis night—starless night, o'er our hopes and our
hearts.
All nature's awake!—and will not the fame
Of heroes, your fathers—O'Brien your sire,
Arouse you to glory—to vengeance—or shame?
Shall the base churls still mock your own Sheela na
Guire?
