‘Twas kindled on a Northern hill
And spread its sacred flame
Throughout the land, for Soul and Will
Were borne in its train,
‘Till Eire took it to her breast
And claimed it as her own,
Within her virgin womb to rest—
The living faith of Tone.

From one great soul its glory burst,
For it his blood was shed;
And we revere his name the first
Of all our mighty dead.
It shone on many a Wexford field,
Its gleam on pikeheads thrown,
Where Saxon foemen backwards reeled
Before the faith of Tone.

By Emmet’s life-blood well ‘twas fanned
And rose in majesty
When Davis toiled and Mitchel planned
To make a nation free.
It woke within the Irish heart
The flame of vengeance red,
When England thanked the Lord, the Celts
Were dying off or fled.

It left the faint ones to despair,
But called from hill and glen
The stouter hearts to do and dare—
The gallant Fenian Men.
It hovered o’er the felon’s cell
To cheer his aching heart,
And where its holy radiance fell,
Bade hopelessness depart.

It spoke a land from thraldom free
Where happy plenty smiled,
The stranger driven o’er the sea
With vengeance fierce and wild—
A heritage of liberty
To pass adown the years,
When honour, pride, and chivalry
Are cherished by our heirs.

Then ours, dear Banba, be it yet
Your battle-call to wait,
To keep unstained, to ne’er forget
The dreams of Ninety-Eight,
To guard your honour through the years
And raise your regal throne;
The bayonets of your Volunteers
Will guard the Faith of Tone.

Rory on the Hill.