A Song For The Irish Militia.

I.

The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in prostrate men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the crop so bravely sown!
No more I'll sing nor idly pine,
But train my soul to lead a line--
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!


II.

No foe would fear your thunder words,
If 'twere not for your lightning swords--
If tyrants yield when millions pray,
'Tis less they link in war array;
Nor peace itself is safe, but when
The sword is sheathed by fighting men--
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!


III.

The rifle brown and sabre bright
Can freely speak and nobly write--
What prophets preached the truth so well
As HOFER, BRIAN, BRUCE, and TELL?
God guard the creed these heroes taught--
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!


IV.

Then, welcome be the bivouac,
The hardy stand, and fierce attack,
Where pikes will tame their carbineers,
And rifles thin their bay'neteers,
And every field the island through
Will show "what Irishmen can do!"
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death so Ireland's free!


V.

Yet, 'tis not strength and 'tis not steel
Alone can make the English reel;
But wisdom, working day by day,
Till comes the time for passion's sway--
The patient dint and powder shock,
Can blast an empire like a rock.
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!


VI.

The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in slavish men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown.
No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine,
But train my soul to lead a line--
A soldier's life's the life for me--
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free.

Thomas Osborne Davis

Thomas Osborne Davis was an Irish writer, poet, and politician who is best known as the chief organizer of the Young Ireland movement. He was born on October 14, 1814, in Mallow, County Cork, Ireland, and played a significant role in promoting Irish nationalism. Davis was a prolific writer who contributed greatly to Irish literature and national identity. He passed away at a young age of 30 due to scarlet fever on September 16, 1845.

Thomas Osborne Davis

Clare's Dragoons.

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

The Boatman Of Kinsale.

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

The Sack Of Baltimore.[1]

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

O'Brien Of Ara.[1]

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Dugannon Convention.

I.

The church of Dungannon is full to the door,
And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor,
While helmet and shako are ranged all along,
Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng.
In the front of the altar no minister stands,
But the crimson-clad chief of these warrior bands;
And, though solemn the looks and the voices around,
You'd listen in vain for a litany's sound.
Say! what do they hear in the temple of prayer?
Oh! why in the fold has the lion his lair?


II.

Sad, wounded, and wan was the face of our isle,
By English oppression and falsehood and guile;
Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered,
To guard it for England the North volunteered.
From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast--
Still they stood to their gun...

Thomas Osborne Davis

The Song of the Soldier-born

    Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant;
    Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant;
    Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant.

Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion;
A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration;
A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion.

For I hold as a simple faith there's no denying:
The trade of a soldier's the only trade worth plying;
The death of a soldier's the only death worth dying.

So let me go and leave your safety behind me;
Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me;
Go till the word is War - and then you will find me.

Then you will call me and claim me because you will need me;
Cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me...

Robert William Service

The Burial.[1]

Why rings the knell of the funeral bell from a hundred village shrines?
Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those long and ordered lines?
With tear and sigh they're passing by--the matron and the maid--
Has a hero died--is a nation's pride in that cold coffin laid?
With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark men go tramping on--
Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their wrath till the rites
are done?


THE CHANT.

"Ululu! ululu! high on the wind,
There's a home for the slave where no fetters can bind.
Woe, woe to his slayers!"--comes wildly along,
With the trampling of feet and the funeral song.

And now more clear
It swells on the ear;
Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear.

"Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead....

Thomas Osborne Davis

O'Connell's Statue.

Lines To Hogan.


Chisel the likeness of The Chief,
Not in gaiety, nor grief;
Change not by your art to stone,
Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan.
Dark her tale, and none can tell
Its fearful chronicle so well.
Her frame is bent--her wounds are deep--
Who, like him, her woes can weep?

He can be gentle as a bride,
While none can rule with kinglier pride;
Calm to hear, and wise to prove,
Yet gay as lark in soaring love.
Well it were, posterity
Should have some image of his glee;
That easy humour, blossoming
Like the thousand flowers of spring!
Glorious the marble which could show
His bursting sympathy for woe:
Could catch the pathos, flowing wild,
Like mother's milk to craving child.

And oh! how princely were the ar...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Clare's Dragoons.

Air--Viva la.


I.

When, on Ramillies' bloody field,
The baffled French were forced to yield,
The victor Saxon backward reeled
Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons.
The Flags we conquered in that fray
Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say,
We'll win them company to-day,
Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons.


CHORUS.

Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!
Viva la, for Ireland's right!
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright!


II.

The brave old lord died near the fight,
But, for each drop he lost that night,
A Saxon cavalier shall bite
The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons.
For never, when our spurs were set,
And never, when our sabres met,
...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Nationality.

I.

A Nation's voice, a nation's voice--
It is a solemn thing!
It bids the bondage-sick rejoice--
'Tis stronger than a king.
'Tis like the light of many stars,
The sound of many waves,
Which brightly look through prison bars,
And sweetly sound in caves.
Yet is it noblest, godliest known,
When righteous triumph swells its tone.


II.

A nation's flag, a nation's flag--
If wickedly unrolled,
May foes in adverse battle drag
Its every fold from fold.
But in the cause of Liberty,
Guard it 'gainst Earth and Hell;
Guard it till Death or Victory--
Look you, you guard it well!
No saint or king has tomb so proud
As he whose flag becomes his shroud.


III.

A nation's right, a nation's right--
God...

Thomas Osborne Davis