Great faith I have in moral force,
Great trust in thought and pen;
I know the value of discourse,
To sway the minds of men;
But why should words our frenzy whet,
Unless we are to STRIKE
Our despot lords, who fear no threat,
But reverence the Pike?
Besides, the dialogue is slow—
It hangs, and always hung;
Where one man argues with a blow,
The other with his tongue.
The man who talks to me with swords,
Guns, bayonets, and the like,
Should not complain, if, shunning words,
I answer with the Pike.
A bard, when asked what earthly sound
All music else surpasses,
Replied, with sophistry profound,
‘The tinkling of the glasses;’
But on my ear another noise
More rapturously strikes:
And may we hear it soon, my boys!
The crashing of the Pikes.
Oh! do be wise! Leave moral force,
The strength of thought and pen,
And all the value of discourse,
To lily-liver’d men;
But, if you’re yet not to die
Of hunger in a dike—
If life we prize, or liberty—
A PIKE! a PIKE! a PIKE!
United Irishman.
An Irish Rebel.