OYE who have vanquished the land and retain it, How little ye know what ye miss of delight! There are worlds in her heart -- could ye seek it or gain it -- That would clothe a true noble with glory and might. What is she, this Isle which ye trample and ravage, Which ye plough with oppression, and reap with the sword, But a harp, never strung, in the hall of a savage, Or a fair wife embraced by a husband abhorred? The chiefs of the Gael were the people embodied; Thy chiefs were the blossoms, the people the root! Their conquerors, the Normans, high-souled and high-blooded, Grew Irish at last from the scalp to the foot. And ye! -- ye are hirelings and satraps, not nobles! Your slaves, they detest you; your masters, they scorn! The river lives on -- but the sun-painted bubbles Pass quick, to the rapids insensibly borne. |