Oh, where's the slave so lowly,

Condemned to chains unholy,

  Who, could he burst

  His bonds at first,

Would pine beneath them slowly?

What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,

Would wait till time decayed it,

  When thus its wing

  At once may spring

To the throne of Him who made it?

Farewell, Erin.—farewell, all,

Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing,

Alive, untouched and blowing,

  Than that, whose braid

  Is plucked to shade

The brows with victory glowing

We tread the land that bore us,

Her green flag glitters o'er us,

  The friends we've tried

  Are by our side,

And the foe we hate before us.

Farewell, Erin,—farewell, all,

Who live to weep our fall!