The sun had gone down in a halo of glory,
And cast, as it vanished, one lingering ray
On the dark field of battle where, silent and gory,
The brave who had fallen for fatherland lay.
Then close round the fires where the weary were sleeping,
And the angel of death his stern vigil was keeping,
We gathered together in sorrow and weeping
For the brave who had fallen for Erin Machree!
From the first early dawn of the morn we had battled,
Till the mantle of night hid the sun from our gaze;
We shrank not, though balls in one leaden shower rattled,
And the fire of the foe was an endless red blaze.
Like waves ’gainst a rock on the hirelings before us
We charged side by side, with the green banner o’er us,
While the boom of our guns pealed a thundering chorus
That spoke of the wrongs of our Erin Machree!
But vainly our hot blood poured freely as water,
Ah! vainly it crimsoned the emerald plains;
When the bright sun sank down on that black scene of slaughter,
’Twas to rise the next morn on a nation in chains!
Oh! better be laid with the dead or the dying,
The wild winds a requiem over us sighing,
Than linger to see in the bloody dust lying
The shot-shattered banner of Erin Machree!
Yet weep not, though dark be the clouds of our sorrow
With slavery’s midnight surrounding us fast;
Each cloud hath a bright side, each night hath a morrow—
That morning must dawn on our island at last.
Our hopes are undimmed, e’en in dying we breathe them;
Our swords are untarnished, and so we bequeath them
To our sons, who some bright morn will proudly unsheathe them
To strike down the tyrants of Erin Machree!