Air: The Wearing of the Green

‘Oh! then tell me, Sean O’Farrell, tell me why you hurry so?’
‘Hush, a bhuachaill, hush and listen,’ and his cheeks were all aglow.
‘I bear orders from the Captain, get you ready quick and soon,
For the pikes must be together at the rising of the moon.’

‘Oh! then tell me, Sean O’Farrell, where the gathering is to be?’
‘In the old spot by the river, right well known to you and me.
One word more—for signal token—whistle up the marching tune,
With your pike upon your shoulder, by the rising of the moon.’

Out from many a mudwall cabin eyes were watching through the night,
Many a manly breast was throbbing for the blessed warning light,
Murmurs passed along the valley like the banshee’s lonely croon,
And a thousand blades were flashing at the rising of the moon.

There beside the singing river that dark mass of men were seen,
Far above the shining weapons hung their own immortal green.
‘Death to every foe and traitor! Forward! Strike the marching tune,
And, hurrah, my boys, for freedom! ’tis the rising of the moon.’

Well they fought for poor old Ireland and full bitter was their fate—
Oh! what glorious pride and sorrow fills the name of Ninety-Eight—
Yet, thank God, while hears are beating in manhood’s burning noon
We will follow in their footsteps at the rising of the moon!