OUR OWN LAND by FRANCIS DAVIS

IS this a time to cut and carve
Each other's souls for trifles,
When at our hearts the foe's reserve
Prepare to point their rifles?
Up! up! ye true --
Prepare to do!
But hear it, high and low, man:
By Erin's faith,
One angry breath,
And Erin writes you foeman!
Our own land, our dear land,
The green land that bore us;
Let's firmer grasp her bleeding hand,
And faction sweep before us.

Her page of every bloody trace,
Before ye'd dream to close it,
To cleanse ye vowed in Heaven's face,
And mark ye, Heaven knows it:
And sure this day
Her green's as gay
As when your vows were plighted:
And now as then,
Ye know it, men,
She's full as banned and blighted.
Our own land, our green land,
The dear land that bore us;
Oh, who would drop her bleeding hand,
And aught of hope before us.

Oh, no! we've none, be Heaven praised,
To bite his lip and falter,
Till freedom's sacrifice has blazed
On every cottage altar;
And here we swear
By sea and air,
Though earth and hell oppose it,
However won,
It must be done,
And that's the way to close it!
Our own land, our dear land,
The green land that bore us;
We'll firmer grasp her bleeding hand,
And sweep her foes before us!

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