by Joseph Plunkett
This heritage to the race of kings
Their children and their children’s seed
Have wrought their prophecies in deed
Of terrible and splendid things.
The hands that fought, the hearts that broke
In old immortal tragedies,
These have not failed beneath the skies,
Their children’s heads refuse the yoke.
And still their hands shall guard the sod
That holds their father’s funeral urn,
Still shall their hearts volcanic burn
With anger of the sons of God.
No alien sword shall earn as wage
The entail of their blood and tears,
No shameful price for peaceful years
Shall ever part this heritage.