Classic Poem

Rise, might of Erin! rise!
O! Osgur, of the generous soul!
Now, on the foe's astonish'd eyes,
Let thy proud ensigns wave dismay!
Now let the thunder of thy battle roll,
And bear the palm of strength and victory away!

Son of the fire, whose stroke is fate,
Be thou in might supreme!
Let conquest on thy arm await,
In each conflicting hour!
Slight let the force of adverse numbers seem,
Till, o'er their prostrate ranks, thy shouting squadrons pour!

O hear the voice of lofty song! —
Obey the Bard! —
Stop — stop M'Garaidh! check his pride,
And rush resistless on each regal foe!
Thin their proud ranks, and give the smoaking tide
Of hostile blood to flow!
Mark where Mac-Cormac pours along! —
Rush on — retard
His haughty progress! — let thy might
Rise, in the deathful fight,
O'er thy prime foe supreme,
And let the stream
Of valour flow,
Until thy brandish'd sword
Shall humble ev'ry haughty foe,
And justice be restor'd.

Son of the King of spotless fame,
Whose actions fill the world!
Like his, thy story and thy name
Shall fire heroick song,
And, with prowess of this day, the lofty strain prolong!
Shall tell how oft, in Gabhra's plain,
Thy dreadful spear was hurl'd:
How high it heap'd the field with slain,
How wide its carnage spread,
Till gorg'd upon the human feast, the glutted ravens fed.

Resistless as the spirit of the night,
In storms and terrors drest,
Withering the force of ev'ry hostile breast,
Rush on the ranks of fight! —
Youth of fierce deeds, and noble soul!
Rend — scatter wide the foe! —
Swift forward rush, — and lay the waving pride
Of yon high ensigns low!
Thine be the battle! — thine the sway! —
On — on to Cairbre hew thy conquering way,
And let thy deathful arm dash safety from his side!
As the proud wave, on whose broad back
The storm its burden heaves,
Drives on the scatter'd wreck
Its ruin leaves;
So let thy sweeping progress roll,
Fierce, resistless, rapid, strong,
Pour, like the billow of the flood, o'erwhelming might along!

From king to king, let death thy steps await,
Thou messenger of fate,
Whose awful mandate thou art chosen to bear:
Take no vain truce, no respite yield,
'Till thine be the contested field;
O thou, of champion'd fame the royal heir!
Pierce the proud squadrons of the foe,
And o'er their slaughter'd heaps triumphant rise!
Oh, in fierce charms, and lovely might array'd!
Bright, in the front of battle, wave thy blade!
Oh, let thy fury rise upon my voice!
Rush on, and glorying in thy strength rejoice!
Mark where yon bloody ensign flies!
Rush! — seize it! — lay its haughty triumphs low!

Wide around thy carnage spread!
Heavy be the heaps of dead!
Roll on thy rapid might,
Thou roaring stream of prowess in the fight!
What tho' Finn be distant far,
Art thou not thyself a war? —
Victory shall be all thy own,
And this day's glory thine, and thine alone!
Be thou the foremost of thy race in fame!
So shall the bard exalt thy deathless name!
So shall thy sword, supreme o'er numbers, rise,
And vanquish'd Tamor's groans ascend the skies!
Tho' unequal be the fight,
Tho' unnumber'd be the foe,
No thought on fear, or on defeat bestow,
For conquest waits to crown thy cause, and thy successful might!
Rush, therefore, on, amid the battle's rage,
Where fierce contending kings engage,
And powerless lay thy proud opponents low!

O lovely warrior! Form of grace,
Be not dismay'd!
Friend of the Bards! think on thy valiant race!
O thou whom none in vain implore,
Whose soul by fear was never sway'd,
Now let the battle round thy ensigns roar!

Wide the vengeful ruin spread!
Heap the groaning field with dead!
Furious be thy griding sword,
Death with every stroke descend!
Thou to whose fame earth can no match afford;
That fame which shall thro' time, as thro' the world, extend!

Shower thy might upon the foe!
Lay their pride, in Gabhra, low!
Thine be the sway of this contested field!
To thee for aid the Fenii fly;
On that brave arm thy country's hopes rely,
From every foe thy native land to shield!

Aspect of beauty! pride of praise!
Summit of heroic fame!
O theme of Erin! youth of matchless deeds!
Think on thy wrongs! now, now let vengeance raise
Thy valiant arm! — and let destruction flame,
'Till low beneath thy sword each chief of Ulster lies!
O prince of numerous hosts, and bounding steeds!
Raise thy red shield, with tenfold force endu'd!
Forsake not the fam'd path thy fathers have pursu'd!
But let, with theirs, thy equal honours rise!

Hark! — Anguish groans! — the battle bleeds
Before thy spear! — its flight is death! —
Now, o'er the heath,
The foe recedes!
And wide the hostile crimson flows! —
See how it dyes thy deathful blade! —
See, in dismay, each routed squadron flies!
Now! — now thy havoc thins the ranks of fight,
And scatters o'er the field thy foes! —
O still be thy encreasing force display'd!
Slack not the noble ardour of thy might!
Pursue — pursue with death their flight! —
Rise, arm of Erin! — Rise! —