To the Battle, Men of Erin

To the battle, men of Erin,
To the front of battle go;
Every breast the shamrock wearing
Burns to meet his country's foe.
What though, France, thine eagle standard
Spreading terror far and nigh,
Over Europe's skies hath wander'd
On the wings of victory—

Yet thy vauntings us dismay not,
Tell us when ye, hand to hand,
Ever stood the charging bay'net
Of a right true Irish hand.
Erin, when the swords are glancing
In the dark fight, loves to see
Foremost still her plumage dancing,
To the trumpet's jubilee.
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