Sometimes he's selling hairpins at a counter!
Sometimes he's standing working at a loom!
Sometimes he's planting “taters” in a furrow!
Or handing round the dishes in his master's dining-room.
And other times you'll see him in an office!
With polished nails and nicely parted hair,
But it's not his job that matters,
His finery or his tatters,
For there's something in a slacker you can tell him anywhere.

It's something in the look he has about him!
It's something in the way he meets your eye!
It's something in his sloppy way of talking!

Warriors all for Ireland's sake!
Whatever our party or creed,
The men who will fight for the truth and the right,
Are men of the Irish breed!

Warriors all, and who would hang back
With the soul of the world in pain?
We'll give of our best as we've given before
Please God we won't give in vain!

Warriors all, we welcome the call!
We know that we truly can say
What Ireland did in the days of yore,
Ireland will still do to-day.

Warriors all, come, answer the call!
And show them what you can do,

He who hath deemed another and himself as the same,
He who hath deemed the day (of joy) and the night (of sorrow) to be alike,
He whose mind hath become free from duality,
He, and he alone, hath seen the Lord of the chiefest of the gods.

Youth sees the world before him, and the path
Of sin how fair, hedged in by every sweet
That flowers can breathe, or melting fruits distil;
For ever winding in its blossomed maze,
It meets the eye with pleasures ever new;
It leads to luscious gardens, snowy beds
Of lilies, heaps of roses, citron shades,
That breathe alluring fragrance, cool retreats
Beneath o'erarching vines, and lonely grots,
Where nectared fountains bubble, amber streams
Of kindling waters murmur, on whose banks
Couches of matted grass and scented bloom

Once more on the mighty engine, boys,
With my hand on the driver's arm,
And again at his touch through each fire-leading vein
Throbs a flood of the life-giving charm.
Then away he speeds as a light in the north
Shooting up makes the heavens grow pale;
At my feet the glow and the beat of his heart,
And beneath them the ring of the rail.

Hurrah! how each sweep of his lightning limb
Flashes swifter than that of the last,
While, wild as the flight in a dream of the night,
The distance is galloping past.
On, on, with a madder desire in his breast

Into all the onward current and this iron time that feels
Its own way with din and clamour through this century of ours
Come I, while the toiling planet like some stricken monster reels
In an overheat to reach the very climax of its powers.

But the ages, ever watchful of their growing higher need,
Cry—“Before we hail him poet, glowing with the vatic mood,
He must, with his brow turn'd upward, stand like rock upon his creed,
Ours shall be the task to shelter what may spring from where he stood.”

They found you nigh the foot of Roman's Leap,
Deep-buried in the bracken's rustling gold,
Your arm beneath you bent, your brown face cold:
Yet all unheeding round you grazed your sheep.

They found you nigh the foot of Roman's Leap:
They laid you on a hurdle, bracken-strewn:
They bore you home beneath the waning moon,
With laboured breathing up the craggy steep.

They found you nigh the foot of Roman's Leap:
Their whispering shadows darkened in the door:
Their griding hobnails crossed the sanded floor
As in with them the whole night seemed to sweep.

What glorious landscape woos the raptured eye,
What heavenly music wakes the raptured ear,
What radiant clouds are floating in the sky,
What gorgeous colours hill and valley wear,
What craggy mountains, and what leafy woods,
What tiny streamlets, and what ocean floods!

Far in the east, the Bass and Berwick Law
Stand bluffly out against the pearly sky,
Their bosoms lashed with waves of silvered snaw,
Their summits lit with hues of orient dye,
Gleaming more brightly 'mid the hazy grey,
That sends the distance twice its length away.

Why treasures hoard, that rust and rot,
Or gold that thieves may steal?
Why are those priceless gems forgot
That bear God's holy seal?
Strive ye to gain the Christian's share,
And store in heaven your prize;
For if your dearest treasure's there,
There will your wishes rise.

On food and raiment wherefore spend
Your life in careworn thought,
While food for an immortal mind
Remains by you unsought?
Your Father feeds the fowls of air,
Who neither reap nor sow;
The lilies spin not, yet how fair
The gentle lilies grow!

Between our eastward and our westward sea
The narrowing strand
Clasps close the noblest shore fame holds in fee
Even here where English birth seals all men free—
Northumberland.

The sea-mists meet across it when the snow
Clothes moor and fell,
And bid their true-born hearts who love it glow
For joy that none less nobly born may know
What love knows well.

The splendour and the strength of storm and fight
Sustain the song
That filled our fathers' hearts with joy to smite,
To live, to love, to lay down life that right