The Pulse of an Irishman
The pulse of an Irishman ever beats quicker,
when war is the story or love is the theme;
and place him where bullets fly thicker and thicker,
You’ll find him all cowardice scorning.
And tho’ a ball should maim poor Darby,
light at the heart he rallies on:
“Fortune is cruel, but Norah, my jewel, is kind,
and with smiling, all sorrow beguiling,
shall from our cabin all care to be gone;
and how they will jig it and tug at the spigot,
on Patrick’s day in the morning.”
Oh blest by the land in the wide western waters,
sweet Erin, lov’d Erin, the pride of my song;
still brave be the sons, and still fair be the daughters
thy meads and mountains adorning!
And tho’ the eastern sun seems tardy,
Tho’ the pure light of knowledge slow,
night and delusion, and darkling confusion
like mists from the river shall vanish forever,
and true Irish hearts with warm loyalty glow;
and proud exaltation burst forth from the nation
on Patrick’s day in the morning.
Poem by Alexander Boswell
No comments:
Post a Comment