Genius of Erin, tune thy harp
To freedom, let its sound awake
Thy prostrate sons, and nerve their hearts
Oppression’s iron bonds to break.
Long and strong then strike the lyre—
Strike it with prophetic lays,
Bid it rouse the slumbering fire,
Bid the fire of freedom blaze.
Tell them glory waits their efforts—
Strongly wooed, she will be won;
Freedom, show, by peace attended,
Waits to crown each gallant son.
Greatly daring, bid them gain her;
Conquerors, bid them live or die;
Erin in her children triumphs,
Even where her martyrs lie.
But if her sons, too long opprest,
No spark of freedom’s fire retain,
And with sad and servile breast,
Basely wear the galling chain;
Vainly then you’d call to glory,
Vainly freedom’s blessing praise—
Man debased to willing thraldom
Freedom’s blessing cannot raise.
Check thy hand, and change thy strain,
Check it to a sound of woe,—
Ireland’s blasted hopes proclaim,
Ireland’s endless sufferings show.
Show her fields with blood ensanguined,
With her children’s blood bedewed—
Show her desolated plains,
With their murdered bodies strewed.
Mark that hamlet—how it blazes!
Hear the shrieks of horror rise—
See! the fiends prepare their tortures—
See! a tortured victim dies.
Ruin stalks his haggard round,
O’er the plains his banner waves,
Sweeping from her wasted land
All but tyrants and their slaves.
All but tyrants and their slaves!
Shall they live in Erin’s isle?
O’er her martyred patriot’s graves
Shall oppression’s minions smile?
Erin’s sons, awake!—awake!
Oh! too long, too long, you sleep;
Awake! arise! your fetters break,
Nor let your country bleed and weep.