Classic Poem

Sweet land of song, thy harp doth hang
Upon the willow now,
While famine's blight and fever's pang
Stamps mis'ry on thy brow;
Yet take thy harp and raise thy voice,
Though weak and low it be,
And let thy sinking heart rejoice
In friends still left to thee.

Look out! look out! across the sea
That girds thy em'rald shore,
A ship of war is bound to thee,
But with no war-like store.
Her thunders sleep; 't is mercy's breath
That wafts her o'er the sea;
She goes not forth to deal out death,
But bears new life to thee.

Thy wasted hands can scarcely strike
The chords of grateful praise,
Thy plaintive tone is now unlike
The voice of prouder days;
Yet, e'en in sorrow, tuneful still,
Let Erin's voice proclaim
In bardic praise on ev'ry hill
Columbia's glorious name.