Let dull Philosophers enquire no more
In nature's womb, nor causes strive t'explore,
By what strange harmony and course of things
Each body to the whole a tribute brings;
What secret Unions neighbouring agents make,
And of each other how they doe partake
These are but low experiments; but he
That nature's harmony entire would see,
Must search agreeing soules, sit down and view
How sweet the mixture is! how full! how true!
By what soft touches spirits greet and kiss,
And in each other can compleat their bliss:
A wonder so sublime it will admit

Ye gentlemen of England
That live at home at ease,
Ah! little do ye think upon
The dangers of the seas.
Give ear unto the mariners,
And they will plainly show
All the cares and the fears
When the stormy winds do blow.
When the stormy winds do blow.

If enemies oppose us
When England is at war
With any foreign nation,
We fear not wound or scar;
Our roaring guns shall teach 'em
Our valour for to know,
Whilst they reel on the keel,
And the stormy winds do blow.
And the stormy winds do blow.

Nor of silk or cloth of gold
Is it made, our banner fair
On a wild and awful night,
When the tempest filled the air,

Roared the ancient spinning-wheel;
By it, pale Necessity,
In a cellar corner damp,
By a candle dim to see,

Spun the gray threads for our flag,
Wove them firm, with care and pains,
Dyed them with the last red drops
From her own exhausted veins.

Every fresh and bleeding wound,
Every grief and every woe,
From the dungeons underground,
From the black abyss below;

From the starving villages,

I'm sick o' New York City an' the roarin' o' the thrains
That rowl above the blessèd roofs an' undernaith the dhrains;
Wid dust an' smoke an' divilmint I'm moidhered head an' brains,
An' I thinkin' o' the skies of ould Kilkinny!

Bad luck to Owen Morahan that sint the passage-note
'Tis he's the cause, the omadhaun, I ever tuk the boat;
'Tis he's the cause I'm weepin' here, a dhrayman on a float,
When I should be savin' hay in ould Kilkinny!

The sorra bit o' grassy field from morn till night I see,
Nor e'er a lark or linnet—not to mind a weeshy bee!

Dear father, I hear a whisper,
It tells me that I must go,
And my heart returns her answer
In throbbings so faint and low.

I'm sorry to leave you, father,
I know you will miss me so,
And the world for you will gather
A gloomier shade of woe.

You will miss me, dearest father,
When the violets wake from sleep,
And timidly from their hedges
The early snow-drops peep.

I shall not be here to gather
The flowers by stream and dell,
The bright and beautiful flowers,
Dear Father, you love so well.

You've heard no doubt of Irish bulls,
And how they blunder, thick and fast;
But of all the queer and foolish things,
O'Reiley, you have said the last.

You say we brought the rebs supplies,
And gave them aid amid the fight,
And if you must be ruled by rebs,
Instead of black you want them white.

You blame us that we did not rise,
And pluck war from a fiery brand,
When Little Mac said if we did,
He'd put us down with iron hand.

And when we sought to join your ranks,
And battle with you, side by side,

The Duke, far in the forest,
Sat 'neath an oaktree's shade;
Whilst near him, gathering berries,
A maiden singing strayed.
The fresh and fragrant berries
She to the graybeard bore;
Her dulcet tones around him
Still floated evermore.

Then spake he—“Gentle maiden,
At thy sweet voices sound,
Of huntsman's toil a-weary,
My spirit peace hath found.
The strawberries thou bringest
Are fresh and cool, y-wis;
But sing again—thou soothest
My soul with dreams of bliss.

When 'neath this oaktree's shadow
My ivory horn is blown,

Brick walls built by Labor
Keep the sun away;
Towers wrought by Labor
Set cold winds at play;
Fires stoked by Labor
Make the sky dark gray;
So what is the good of
Labor anyway?

There is a scent on the books of dead men's bones,
And a spatter of blood over all;
There's a rough, ragged hole in each leaf you turn,
Like the wound from a rifleman's ball.

There's the last gasp of men shot down at command
Of this gracious and generous man;
There's the blood and groan, the grief and the sham—
You picture it, any who can.

There's a picture of Homestead—will we ever forget
How those brave ragged men were defenselessly slain—
Were slaughtered like beasts, like poor hunted beasts,
By Carnegie's will and for Carnegie's gain?

Little we know how it is, nothing we know of the why,
Simply we shuffle, the road leads to the end of the earth.
Everything kicks us. We learn, and those who quit learning must die,
But the learning is all of the road and unriddles no riddle of birth.

The stars in their courses may set, the stars in their courses may rise,
We look at them and say nothing, not knowing their why or ours;
Only sometimes we feel there is beauty in all those eyes
Whether that beauty mocks or blesses our ways and hours.