| Music: David Kincaid Song of the Irish Brigade Paintings: Don Troiani (Drive them to Washington/Altoona Pass/Little Round Top) Lyrics: Oh, not now for songs of a nation's wrongs, not the groans of starving labor; Let the rifle ring and the bullet sing to the clash of the flashing sabre! There are Irish ranks on the tented banks of Columbia's guarded ocean; And an iron clank from flank to flank tells of armed men in motion. And frank souls there clear true and bare To all, as the steel beside them, Can love or hate withe the strength of Fate, Till the grave of the valiant hide them. Each seems to be mailed Ard Righ, whose sword's avenging glory Must light the fight and smite for Right, Like Brian's in olden story! With pale affright and panic flight Shall dastard Yankees base and hollow, Hear a Celtic race, from their battle place, Charge to the shout of "Faugh-a-ballaugh!" By the sould above, by the land we love Her tears bleeding patience The sledge is wrought that shall smash to naught The brazen liar of nations. The Irish green shall again be seen as our Irish fathers bore it, A burning wind from the South behind, and the Yankee rout before it! O'Neil's red hand shall purge the land- Rain a fire on men and cattle, Till the Lincoln snakes in their own cold lakes Plunge from the blaze of battle. The knaves that rest on Columbia's breast, and the voice of true men stifle; we'll exorcise from the rescued prize- Our talisman, the rifle; For a tyrant's life a bowie knife ... |
