Classic Poem

I am not of your blood;
I never loved your ways:
If e'er your deed was good
I yet was slow to praise.

Irish and rebel both,
And both unto the end —
And here I pledge you troth,
And here I stand your friend.

This scum that blights our fame,
This mildew on our land —
The murrain on their name:
My spittle on their hand.

The gates of Hell assail:
Look on yon stricken trench —
There dies the loyal Gael:
Let not your talkers blench.