Song of the Irish-American Regiments
Williams (1822 - 1862)
We have changed the battle-field,
But the cause abandoned never-
Here a sharper sword to wield,
And wage the endless war for ever.
Yes! the war we wage with thee-
That of light with power infernal-
As it hath been still shall be,
Unforgiving and eternal.
Let admiring nations praise
Thy crystal halls and silk pavilions;
But I see through bloody haze
The phantoms of the murdered
Hark! from out their shallow graves
Wail our brothers o’er the billow-
“ We have died the death of slaves,
Weeds our food, the earth our pillow.”
Lo! the ghastly spectre throng,
Shroudless all in awful pallor!
Vengeance! who should right their wrong?
We have arms, and
men, and valour.
Strike! the idol long adored
Waits the doom just gods award her;
To arms! away! with fire and sword,
Our march is o’er the British border!
The harlot, drunk with pride as wine,
Revels in her guilty palace,
Thus Belshazzar Syria’s vine
Quaffed from plundered Salem’s
That very hour avenging Fates
Rolled back thy storied tide,
And thou, the Gaul is at thy gates,
And panic smites thy pale Penates.
The brazen hypocrite who moans
O’er others’ sins, yet dares
Her own foul guilt, whereat the stones
Of Sodom’s self might blush and
Thy power and pride shall cease below
The scoff of every tongue and nation.
And men thy name shall only know
meaning guilt and desolation.