|
The minstrel boy to the war is gone, |
|
In the ranks of death you'll find him; |
|
His fathers sword he has girded on, |
|
And his wild harp slung behind him. |
|
"land of song!" said the warrior bard, |
|
"though all the world betrays thee, |
|
One sword at least thy rights shall guard, |
|
One faithful harp shall praise thee!" |
|
The minstrel fell! - but the foeman's chain |
|
Could not bring that proud soul under; |
|
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again |
|
For he tore is chords asunder; |
|
And said "no chains shall sully thee, |
|
Thou soul of love and bravery! |
|
Thy songs were made for the pure and free, |
|
They shall never sound in slavery." |
