Native Swords, Thomas Osborne Davis

We've bent too long to braggart wrong
While force our prayers derided:
We've fought too long, ourselves among,
By knaves and priests divided.
United now, no more we'll bow,
Foul faction we discard it;
And now, thank God! Our native sod
Has Native Swords to guard it.
Like rivers, which, o'er valleys rich,
Bring ruin in their water,
On native land, a native hand
Flung foreign fraud and slaughter.
From Dermod's crime to Tudor's time
Our clans were our perdition;
Religion's name, since then, became
Our pretext for division.

But, worse than all, with Lim'rick's fall
Our valour seem'd to perish;
Or, o'er the main, in France and Spain
For bootless vengeance flourish.
The peasant here grew pale, for fear
He'd suffer for our glory,
While France sang joy for Fontenoy,
And Europe hymned our story.

But, now, no clan, or factious plan,
The East and West can sunder -
Why Ulster e'er should Munster fear,
Can only wake our wonder.
Religion's crost, when Union's lost,
And "royal gifts" retard it;
But now, thank God! Our native sod
Has Native swords to guard it.