Oracles

ST PATRICK’S DAY I49 Our weapons—be they fire and cord, The shell, the rifle, and the sword ! Without a helper or a friend All means be righteous to the End ! Look not for help to wordy strife ! This battle is for death or life. Melt mountains with a word—and then The colder hearts of Englishmen ! Look not to Europe in your need ! Columbia’s but a broken reed ! Your own good hearts, your own strong hand Win back at last the Irish land. Won by the strength of cold despair Our chance is near us—slay nor spare ! Open to fate the Saxons lie, Up ! Ireland ! ere the good hour fly ! Stand all our fortunes on one cast ! Arise ! the hour is come at last. One torch may fire the ungodly shrine— O God ! and may that torch be mine ! But, even when victory is assured, Forget not all ye have endured ! Of native mercy dam the dyke, And leave the snake no fang to strike !