Of the last great fight of all.
All the force of might by her ancient foes
Is flung to bring her fall. Her sons are slain and their homes are burnt,
And the women and children die;
Yet there's never a sign of a yielding heart,
Nor the sound of a hopeless sigh. Alone she stands, while the world looks on
ln admiring but helpless awe.
And only the children at home will strive
To break down the tyrant's law. 'Tis they who suffer the grief and pain
And death, through night and day;
And yet 'tis they who must wage the fight
Though the last man fall on the way. Can ye not hear Dark Roisin's' voice
Calling through mists of blood--
Calling to you, her exiled sons,
Whilst silently there ye brood ? Oh, would that I had a tongue of flame
To stir your hearts again,
To waken in ye the fire of the Gael
That long hath dormant lain. Would that my pen could write such words
As would set your blood afire,
your hearts aglow and your eyes ablaze.
With fervour that ne'er should tire. The nation bleeds before your eyes.
What answer will you give ?
In God's name, exiles of Ireland, come
And rally; that Ireland live ! --Eibhlin de Paor.
Chorley, England. Notes From the South Australian Newspaper The Southern Cross 11 Mar 1921 p. 103. This song appears on the same page as a St Patrick's Day Advertisement that includes a meeting with the heading "IRELAND'S RIGHT TO INDEPENDENCE".