Where Is The Slave.

A poem by Thomas Moore

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!