The Scot to mighty Wallace
And lordly Bruce is leal;
The Irish heart's the palace
Of Brian and O'Neil;
The Welsh, they laud Llewelyn
With harp and trumpet tone;
But oh! our hero's Illiam,
Our hero's Illiam Dhone!

For when oppression flourish'd,
And we were slaves, not men,
What voice rebellion nourish'd
And gave us heart again?
What proud insurgent vassal
Could shake the tyrant's throne,
And pluck from him his castle,
Say, who but Illiam Dhone?

Ah! laurel tree fair risen,
But blasted at a breath,
O'erpower'd and pent in prison —
Tried, doom'd, and led to death!
His fair ones he is clasping —
A flash, a fall, a groan —
And in his life's blood, gasping,
Lies gallant Illiam Dhone!

His foes traduced him living,
His foes traduced him dead,
With hatred unforgiving,
Our hand, our heart, our head.
But when the dead have mounted
Before the Judgment Throne,
Which shall be righteous counted,
Shall they, or Illiam Dhone?

Then, oh, while great and simple
Still side by side are set,
In God's own Tynwald temple,
Let Manxmen ne'er forget,
That the red seal on a charter
Of freedom all our own
I S the life-blood of our martyr
And monarch, Illiam Dhone!